


The Strong Man

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Series: Fire, Ashes, Dreams [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Break Up, Depression, Love, Multi, Sequel, Sexual Content, Steve's Pov, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 90,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has the job. He has the girl. He has the life he was meant for.<br/>So why does it feel like everything is falling apart? </p><p>Follow-up to Burn the World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Mission

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, here we are again.  
> And after I thought about it, I realized I'd basically written a fanfic for my own story. Because I really do think the end of Burn the World works, and it is a good place to leave our guys, with the distinct possibility that they never meet again.  
> So consider this one of many possible outcomes--there's a universe where Steve and Bucky never meet again, there's one where they do and things go terribly wrong, and then there's this one, where maybe--just maybe--things could work out.  
> Since you've already made it through Burn the World, you know what you're getting into when it comes to the violence. This story's no different in that regard, but it's much more unevenly paced, it's talky, and kind of self indulgent. I can't help it, I like to cut off criticism before it can happen.  
> Also, if you haven't read Red, the scene with Vision later on is going to make absolutely no sense to you, but if you're cool with that, no worries.  
> All right, enough warnings. Let's jump back in, and see what kind of state Steve's in ten months after Brooklyn.

He’s had nightmares ever since he was a boy.

            His maimeó wasn’t exactly in her right mind the last few years of her life, and thought it appropriate to tell him how his father died. So she called little Steven Rogers over when he was four, pulled him into her lap, and told him with her beautiful brogue about the burning and the yellow and how they screamed, how it was the worst way to go and everyone knew it because the men were so brave and never screamed but the men with the mustard burns screamed. That was how his father had died—over the course of weeks, eyes swelling shut, skin boiling and changing colour, unable to keep his mouth shut from the pain. He had been a strong man, the best of men, but even the pain would have been too much for poor Joe, Steven. Even for him.

            And Steve had been so terrified that he couldn’t breathe, lungs closing tight, and his mother had run in, grabbing him away from her mother in law, asking what was wrong with her, and his maimeó had clucked and said he’d never be strong like his father, that he’d never fight any wars.

            She was dead two months later, a stroke in the night. But from the day he learned how Joseph Rogers died, Steve dreamed of his father, who he only knew from two pictures, one hung on the wall, one at his mother’s bedside. His maimeó was right—he’d never be strong like him. He was a tall, handsome man with shoulders that seemed too big for his uniform. He was pure black Irish, strong and cocksure. Steve knew long before he could articulate it that he would have been a terrible disappointment to him. Later, his father told him so in his dreams.

            He dreamed of battlefields. He dreamed of gas. He dreamed of a man who would always be better than him, stronger and taller and braver and just better in every possible way, and he dreamed about him dying.

            Steve isn’t sure if he’s had a decent night’s sleep in nearly a century. Sometimes he wonders if he even dreamed while he was in the ice.

            He dreams of gas. He dreams of choking. He dreams of the sky opening and monsters coming through. He dreams about the end of days.

            Most of all, though, he dreams of falling, and wishes he was a better man.

 

Jerking awake, Steve automatically reaches for the edge of the seat. He blinks a few times, and begins blushing even before looking across the jet.

            He’s not sure if he’s more or less embarrassed since he’s with Clint and Natasha. Clint, well, if it was just the two of them, he’s pretty sure Clint would pretend like nothing happened. The thing is, though, he has a tendency to follow Natasha’s lead.

            And she’s looking at Steve like his dreams are as simple a topic to discuss as the weather.

            “Clowns?” she asks.

            “Uh huh,” he replies, wiping some of the sleep from his eyes before squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Lots of them. And every time I cut a head off, two would grow back.”

            He’s not fooling her, and he knows it. Yes, for maybe the _millionth_ time, he was dropping off the side of the mountain. It’s fine—it’s a hell of a lot preferable to the reverse, when he’s the one who didn’t reach out in time.

            “Clint’s scared of clowns,” Natasha says.

            “It’s true,” Clint jumps in easily. “Laura was all set to hire one for Lila’s birthday, but I had to put my foot down. She wanted to argue—you know, you’re not even going to be here—but there’s some adults who get it and some who don’t.”

            “Get what?” Steve asks, slightly confused.

            “No child likes clowns,” Natasha answers.

            Clint shakes his head in agreement. “Not a one. She wanted to argue with me, and I said, ‘Honey, I worked in the circus for years. Trust me on this.’”

            Trying to get as much distance between himself and the dream as possible, Steve smiles a little, shifting in his seat. “How is Laura doing?”

            Raising his shoulders, Clint says with his usual deadpan amiability, “Well, she’s talking to me this week, so we’ll put that in the win column.”       

            What Steve really hears is _my wife and kids have to live deep undercover because you called me out of retirement, asshole_.

            Natasha pipes up, “You should tell Steve what Nathan’s favourite thing is.”

            Clint glowers at her. “You know, I could have shot you all those years ago.”

            “It’s nice that you still harbour that illusion. If you don’t tell him, then I’m going to tell him.”

            “ _I’m_ not fucking telling him—“

            “So,” Natasha says, and Clint growls, looking away. The jet dips under them lightly, and Steve glances out at the open, clear sky. “Laura takes him to this playgroup. All sorts of small, vulnerable humans slobbering on one another and everything in their radius. As they’re prone to do. And what’s Nathan’s _favourite_ toy?”

            She pauses for dramatic effect, to the point where Steve wonders if he’s actually supposed to guess. “When I was that age, my toys were a stick and a patch of dirt,” Steve jokes. “You’re going to have to give me something to go on.”

            The side of her mouth pulls up slightly. “It’s stuffed, it’s as tall as he is—and it’s red and gold.”

            Steve pauses, and then smothers a laugh. He coughs into his hand before saying to Clint, “Sorry about that, buddy.”

            “Unbelievable,” Clint says, tossing up his hands. “He’s _two_. Two. And already, he’s messing with me. I figured a few more years, Coop would go pierce his tongue or something and I’d have to deal with that. But no. Nathan pitches a fit if he doesn’t get to roll around with an Iron Man doll.” He crosses his arms. “Traitor.”

            Natasha starts to reach for her phone. “I have pictures—“

            Clint starts cursing in Russian, and Steve lifts a hand. “I’m good.” Natasha settles back, shrugging. She yawns, and starts to pin her hair back. Steve glances at the pilot. She never speaks much. He doesn’t even know her name. They call her 37. He thinks of how Sharon used to be called 13 and wonders if there’s a new 13 these days with the new SHIELD. “How are we looking?”

            “Entered Paraguayan airspace fifteen minutes ago,” Natasha answers, sticking a bobby pin in the side of her mouth. She keeps threatening to shave her head if the helmets are a permanent fixture, but Steve thinks that would be a crying shame. He trusts Natasha, is kind of scared of her besides that, and even with all the professional respect he has for her, he can still recognize that she is one absolutely gorgeous woman, and those red curls are a thing of singular beauty.

            And then again, there’s literally no way Natasha Romanoff will ever not be gorgeous.

            “We’re about ten minutes out,” Natasha says, finishing with the pins. She withdraws her helmet, smacking it against her leg as if to get the dust out. “No change, still have the go.”

            “No one’s entered or left the compound?”

            “Nada.”

            “Payne’s holed up in there good and tight,” Clint says. “Guy’s not even poked his head out in twenty four hours. Not like there’s much to look at in Chaco except the insects and the trees.”

            “When were we here? 2010?” Natasha asks him.

            Clint thinks back and says, “No, it’s closer to when Lugo was impeached.”

            “Really?” She shrugs, then unbuckles and starts to stretch. “Time flies when you’re trying to prevent coup d’états.”

            “You’ve _prevented_ coup d’états?” Steve asks with a crooked smile.

            She smiles back, bent over. “I’m equal opportunity.” Picking up her helmet, she sighs before pulling it on. Tugging on her uniform, she looks across at Steve, as though this is all his fault. In a way, he supposes it is.

            In his head, he hears a laconic voice mutter, _you’re such a martyr_.

            It could be worse. They’re all in black, lightly armoured suits. The helmets are much like the one he always wore, save the colour is different. It’s black too, at least until they switch the smart suits on. Then everything will go the colour of their surroundings. They wear the same thing, not to make a statement, but simply because a soldier needs a uniform.

            Even shadow soldiers.

            “Here we go,” says Clint, taking out his own helmet.

            “I swear to God, Clint,” Natasha says, “if you say it one more time—“

            Clint tugs his helmet over his head, and grins, “Bring out the gimp.”

            “And he said it.” Natasha pulls up her sleeve, looking at her watch. “Nine minutes.”

            Steve rolls his fingers, making his hands into fists, then releasing them. He’s still tired. He got precious little sleep last night, and if everything goes according to plan here, he probably won’t see much sleep tonight either. He could always text Sharon. Tell her things took longer than expected.

            _Sleep when you’re dead_ , he tells himself, and gets his helmet out. No blue, no A, no wings, no nothing. A man who’s supposed to be invisible.

            Keep busy, and think as little as possible. That’s the only way forward.

            “Well,” says Steve, “let’s go catch the bad guy.” It’s dull and clichéd and that’s pretty much the story of his life right now.

            He just has to keep moving.

 

37 drops them off two miles from the compound. Their suits and helmets react to their surroundings, turning shades of tan and yellow green interspersed with the bleached blue of the sky to blend in. They hoof it through thick grass that comes up past their ankles, and Steve can’t tell if the trees are dying or if this is simply their natural state.

            The target is Frank Payne, aged 50 years old, former SHIELD agent who now goes by the code name Constrictor. After SHIELD’s intelligence division spent the last six months chasing him and other so called villains down, mostly in response to the terrorist attack in New York, they’re managed to locate Payne in the sparsely populated Chaco region of Paraguay. It’s not a place known for crime, and Payne’s retreat to the area is a curious one.

            Steve’s almost viscerally relieved that it means minimal casualties.

            “Frank’s lost his mind,” Clint told him after the briefing yesterday, once they were away from the office. Barton gave the pertinent information in the meeting with Fury, but Steve wanted the whole story. Barton and Payne had come up through the agency together. “He was a normal enough guy. Good rep for Oscar caliber performances undercover. After his wife died, though, he got a little unsteady. Had a mission go sideways—wasn’t even his fault—and he took some time off to try and get better, be with his kid. But—“ Clint gave Steve a knowing look. “You know the company. Mission first.” He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby, even though both of them would have heard someone coming. “They called him back too soon. Last goddamn thing he needed was an operation that size on his shoulders, posing as some enhanced psychotic. And I don’t know. A switch flipped, or someone flipped it for him. Don’t know if it matters. You saw the recording. He offed the two agents who were undercover with him, and he’s been living his own cover ever since.”

            “And his kid?”

            “She thinks he’s dead.” Clint paused, and said, “Just for hypothetical sake—and I’ve said the same thing to Nat—if I ever end up playing for the other team again, tell my kids I didn’t make it. It’d be better.”

            Steve didn’t know how to tell him he was wrong. That it was better to know. Even if the person you loved wasn’t the same, it was still _them_. But then he wondered if maybe Clint was right.

            Clint stills, going low in the grass, and the others do the same, their suits reacting. Steve looks through the light tree cover, spotting the buildings through the sparse forest. They’re not sure what goes on there. Payne has been moving massive amounts of money, using his deceased mother’s maiden name, and that’s how SHIELD finally found him. The money always goes through at least three dozen accounts, and originates from legitimate, multinational corporations. SHIELD’s been watching people come and go from this building for two weeks, and they have only one satellite image with Payne in it, from two days ago.

            But they have the picture, and the mission’s a go. SHIELD has a black list, and it has two columns. On the one side are people who’ve betrayed SHIELD. On the other are those who could embarrass them. Payne makes both columns, so he needs to be brought in.

            Well—if Steve gets him first, he’ll be brought in. Natasha or Clint gets their hands on him, Payne will probably have to be resuscitated before debriefing.

            Steve spots two guards out front. Both armed, but not exactly paying attention. They’re chatting. Judging from satellite intel, there’s likely another six in the building, plus Payne.

            Natasha pulls out a long range scanner, holding it up. When Steve looks over at her, she shimmers against the scenery, only the exposed parts of her throat, mouth, and eyes sticking out. It’s enough to see her frown. Her thumb dances over the piece of tech, doing something that Steve’s sure his primitive brain probably wouldn’t even understand, and her mouth turns even further down.

            When she actually hits the thing, he gets a bit concerned.

            “You know, that might have worked on my old tube TV,” Barton says under his breath, “but I don’t know if it’ll have the same effect on that nifty little piece the futurist cooked up.”

            “Steve, I’m getting some peculiar data,” Natasha says, voice equally low.

            “Define peculiar,” he replies. In their lives, the word holds little meaning.

            “I’ve got the nine guys, but I’m only seeing above ground. It looks like there’s a basement level, but they’re protecting it somehow. No way to tell what’s down there.”

            “Or how many are down there,” Steve finishes. She shrugs, thumbing through the readings. Steve looks over the building. It’s single story, sprawling outwards. It appears relatively new. They’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no reason this building should exist, and whatever’s going on inside needs to be stopped.

            _Why does it have to be our job to stop it_?

            “Cap?” asks Barton.

            Covering his pause, as if he was assessing the situation, Steve questions, “Nat, what are those doors made of?”

            “That would be steel. The entire building has reinforced walls. Basically, they built a really large vault out here for obviously legitimate reasons.”

            “I’ve still got drugs for the pool,” Clint says, assembling his bow.

            Natasha shakes her head. “Too easy. My money’s on another military takeover, and this is their base of operations.”

            “Ah, it’s been years.”

            “So they’re due.”

            Cutting into the chatter, Steve says, “Is there a back entrance?”

            “Side entrance,” she says. “East side. One guy on it.”

            Steve takes a deep breath, then pulls his shield from its holster on his back. It’s broken down into quarters. With a flick of the wrist, it folds into its usual circular shape, locking into place. Attaching it to his bracer, he says, “You two go through the front, I’ll take the side. Natasha, you think you can see him?”

            Holding up the scanner, Natasha taps on a room at the back of the building. “I’m guessing he’s the heat signature with the metal whips attached to him.”

            “You two take the west of the building, I’ll take the east. We need him in one piece for the folks back home.” When Steve doesn’t get an answer, he gives them both a hard look. “One piece.”

            “I’ll handle him with kid gloves,” Clint replies.

            Dubious, Steve says, “I’ll locate the entrance to the basement level, see if we can’t get some answers the old fashioned way. We good?”

            Selecting one of his exploding arrows, Clint nods. “We’re great.”

            They move out, going silent and fanning out. Clint takes the middle, Natasha to his left, Steve to the right. Steve moves away from them, slipping through the fragile trees, which afford him little cover. It’s a good thing he has the suit today.

            Once he’s alone, he feels a bit better. Lately—he knows he’s been off. Being over a barrel doesn’t help, but ever since Brooklyn—

            _Stop it._

Steve pauses in the trees nearest to the east side of the building. His target is a woman in a black sleeveless tee, chewing on something and looking off towards the plains. Steve dislodges his shield, hefting it slightly in his hand.

            He waits for the signal.

            The signal is fairly loud. The arrow explodes against the steel doors, sending the two guards flying forward. Steve’s target pivots, raising her submachine gun.

            He bursts out from the trees, using the moment of distraction to his advantage. He hurls the shield at such an angle that it collides against her stomach before rebounding. As she lifts back off the ground, finger automatically squeezing around the trigger, Steve leaps upwards and plucks the shield out of the air.

            He can tell from the gunfire that Natasha and Clint are meeting some resistance, but it doesn’t last long. Slapping his shield against his arm, Steve walks over to the guard moaning on the ground, and picks her up by the arm. He’s dropped the magazine from the gun and tossed the weapon aside before she can even react.

            Turning her towards the door, nodding at the keypad, Steve says, “Now, I’m afraid I don’t speak Spanish. But I’m hoping what I need from you will transcend the language barrier.”

            She twists in his arm, and Steve hesitates before reacting. He’s done pretty well in the twenty first century, all things considered. Adjusted to a multitude of attitude changes. He believes in fairness and equality in all things, has been willing to fight and die for those beliefs.

            Still, he really hates having to hurt a girl.

            He squeezes her arm, just a little, but a little for him is a lot for most and she lets out a wail. The woman quickly taps in her passcode, and the door unseals.

            “Thank you,” Steve says. He points towards the plains, and tells her one word. “Run.”

            The survival instinct always outstrips the language barrier. Like there’s anything between here and the next thirty miles, she starts limping away as fast as she’s able, a hand to her stomach.

            Slipping a few fingers inside the heavy door, Steve pushes it a couple inches. He hears another explosion. From deeper in the building, there’s the sound of footsteps, reinforcements for the assault on the front. Silently, Steve moves into the empty, low lit hallway.

            He keeps his sidearm in its holster. He doesn’t like to use it. The shield is almost exclusively his weapon of choice these days. It can be lethal, of course it can, but he rarely uses it that way.

            Someone’s coming.

            Steve presses his back to the wall, and the moment the man rounds the corner, Steve grabs the gun from his hands and flips the guy over. He’s strong, though, almost as big as Steve, and a moment later he staggers to his feet. Not having the time or patience, Steve kicks him square in the sternum, hearing a crack, and the man goes sailing to the back of the hall.

            Continuing on, Steve drops the magazine from this one too, only he keeps that in his hand and gets rid of the weapon. He pops bullets out one by one onto the floor, listening to the fight happening on the other side of the building. More weapons fire. If Clint and Natasha haven’t engaged Payne yet, they’re about to.

            They’re fine on their own. It used to be that Steve was always the first in, the one leading the charge. That instinct has faded somewhat.

            He opens doors, looking for some sign of what they’re really doing here. He sees assault rifles in one room, bottled water and canned food in another. However, there’s no neon sign that says ‘this is our nefarious plan and here’s the evidence, how about we all call it a day.’ Steve would have really appreciated that.

            Steve lifts his head sharply when he hears Natasha cry out, through five layers of walls.

            _She’s fine. She’s possibly the most capable person you’ve ever known_.

            Keeping that in mind, he continues searching.

            There’s a strange skittering noise coming from below. Steve crouches, and turns his ear towards the floor, blocking out the sound of fighting. Yeah, he has a lot of movement under the floor. No voices, though.

            He knocks on the concrete floor, listening to the echo. It sounds strange. Not just concrete, but metal too. And sound proofed. Only someone like him would be able to hear anything from beneath.

            Straightening, Steve searches two more rooms (one entirely empty, the other looking like a break room) before finding what he needs in the latter. Behind the soda machine, there’s a hatch in the floor, locked with some kind of mechanism with buttons and whorls and a biometric scanner.

            Steve takes off his shield and smashes right through it.

            Erring on the side of caution, he protects himself with the shield as he pushes his hand under the hatch and flips it open. It falls back with a clatter. Nothing explodes and no projectiles come at him, so that’s a momentary success.

            It’s gone silent below. It’s well lit, but there’s nothing directly in his line of sight except yellowing walls and what looks like a linoleum floor.

            _I guess fortune favours the bold_ , Steve thinks, then jumps through the opening, his shield up.

            His feet hit the floor and he freezes. About forty pairs of eyes are staring back at him, equally unmoving.

            The lower level is filled with tables and chemistry equipment. Looks like Clint is going to win the pool. The air smells like burning plastic, and the workers are all dressed in t-shirts and shorts and they’re wearing masks and goggles.

            They’re also all children. The oldest is maybe twelve. The youngest ones are maybe eight.

            Steve gets his bearings, and says, “Hi.”

            One of the boys nearest to him grabs a gun off a table and starts shooting at him.

            _Jesus!_ Steve drops, hiding behind his shield as more of the kids pick up weapons and begin firing. Steve’s mind has gone blank. Just a flat, white blank.

            Because how in the hell is he supposed to deal with this?!

            Natasha comes on in his ear. “Target pacified. Wrapped him up in a bow—“

            “I’m being shot at!” Steve yells.

            “That happens in our line of work—“

            “By kids!” he yelps, backing against the wall. He’s scared of what the ricochets off the shield will do. The children are keeping twenty feet between him and them, but he can hear six separate weapons being fired. “Lower level is full of kids and they’re armed!”

            There’s a pause, then Natasha says bluntly, “Shoot back.”

            “Not an option,” Steve says through gritted teeth.

            “Need backup?” asks Clint.

            Natasha will definitely shoot the kids, but Steve doesn’t know if Clint will. Steve’s recovered some of his senses, and he grabs a gas grenade off his belt, arming it, then tosses it into the middle of the room. “Negative,” Steve says, a bullet striking the wall behind him, and concrete chunks shower over his head. He slips his small gas mask onto his lower face as the grenade blows, grimacing at having to slip it up his nostrils. “Remove target from building, inform control we have approximately forty minors who’ll be in need of medical attention—“ A much bigger chunk is blown out of the wall, Steve ducking. “And possibly exorcism.”

            The room begins to fill with a hazy white, and Steve knows he just needs to give it about ten seconds. The gas will knock out the average adult in twenty seconds, and these kids—Jesus Mary and Joseph—are all skinny and small and he is suddenly so furious that he hopes Natasha and Clint haven’t hurt Payne too bad, because he wants that distinction. He has 46 on stand-by in Chicago, ready and waiting. It was a backup, a just-in-case, because Steve knows he’s off his game, and these days he needs backups.

            Kids. He can take a lot, but this is just one of those things he _can’t_.

            It’s more than ten seconds, and then it’s fifteen, and then it’s twenty, and then it’s twenty five and they’re still firing.

            Did he get a dud? Something off about the mix? Of course. Of course! Because why would things ever go right? That would be asking for the goddamn moon—

            They hit the thirty second mark, and Steve can’t remember the last time he just hunkered down under fire this long instead of fighting back. But after everything, there’s some things he simply can’t do. Not for anything. Not for _any_ reason.

            The shots start going wild. They peter off.

            Eventually, they stop.

            Steve counts to ten, then peeks out over top of the shield. The children are all unconscious. They’ve fallen on the floor, over the tables, some with guns still in their hands.

            Slowly, Steve gets to his feet, and says, “Hostiles pacified.”

            “All five by?” Clint asks.

            Steve spots a vial of some brownish liquid on a table. Others have spilled. That’s where the burning plastic smell is coming from. “Affirmative,” he says, even though it’s a bald faced lie.

            He snatches the vial off the table.

            A hand latches onto his boot, and Steve can’t help himself, he’s swinging the shield into position to attack.

            But it’s the first boy who shot at him. He has shaggy black hair and his eyes are almost shut. Even now, after a minute breathing in chemicals that would have felled a man five times his size, he’s clinging to consciousness with almost rabid tenacity.

            He’s gasping, and Steve’s afraid he’s going to hurt himself. “Go to sleep, kid,” he says. “I promise—it’ll all be better when you wake up.”

            The boy looks up, and hisses at him, long and hard.

 

Steve strides out of the building. The vial is almost burning a hole in his pocket, he’s so aware of it. His shield is back in his holster. He knows that if he has it in his hands, he might not be able to stop himself.

            Natasha’s lazily holding a gun on Payne, sitting on the ground about ten feet in front of him. Clint’s behind him, tending to a couple of nasty looking slashes on his arms. Natasha’s got some similar looking wounds, but she’s not bothering with them at the moment.

            Payne has been pushed down on his knees. He’s white but his skin has tanned to near leather. He wears black lensed goggles, hiding his eyes, and black tactical gear. The most remarkable thing about him is the metal.

            He has two long whips that extend from inside his shirt sleeves, at his shoulders, each thirty feet long. They’re attached to his body, though Steve can’t see it, and he only knows the length of them from the report. Natasha has actually tied the man up with them, one of her taser disks giving him a constant low shock. Payne is gritting his teeth, but he’s handling it much better than the average person would, and Steve realizes what that means.

            “Keep it up,” Natasha says to Payne, lifting her wrist and aiming her Widow’s Bite at him. “Plenty more where that came from.”

            “The others?” Steve asks without slowing.

            “Taken care of,” Clint answers simply.

            Steve reaches down and smacks away the taser disk. Payne relaxes slightly, sucking a breath in through his nose.

            “What did you do to the kids?” Steve demands.

            And he does that thing Steve _hates_. He smiles. He absolutely goddamn hates when one of these guys smile. “No idea what you’re talking about, Rogers.”

            “What—did you do to them?”

            Payne shrugs, looking disinterested. Steve grabs the goggles off his head, and tosses them aside. Squinting, Payne glances off into the distance before raising his eyes to Steve’s. They’re an unnatural shade of green.

            “Tell me what you did to them,” Steve says, his voice low.

            He hears Natasha rise behind him. “What’s wrong with the children?”

            Searching Payne’s face for anything human, and coming up empty, Steve answers, “They’re enhanced. Forty kids, making this—“ He pulls out the vial. “And they’re all enhanced.”

            Clint exclaims, “Jesus, Frank—“        

            Payne snaps over his shoulder, “There is no Frank.” He looks back up at Steve, with that awful goddamn smile. “I’m Constrictor.”

            Steve stares at him. He has lived too long, and he has seen too much, and still—there are days when even he can’t handle what new horrors the universe has to offer him. “Want to bet?” Steve murmurs.

            Payne smirks.

            Holding the vial in front of his face, Steve say softly, dangerously, “I want an explanation, or I’m going to do something you _really_ don’t like.”

            With a roll of his bright green eyes, Payne scoffs, “What are you gonna do, _Captain_? Hit me?”

            “Why would I do that, Frank? I want to _hurt_ you.”

            Steve straightens, turning, and passes the vial to Natasha. She pockets it, watching Payne dispassionately. Steve unfastens one of his pockets, withdrawing his cell phone.

            “There’s nothing you got that scares me,” Payne taunts. “The worst you got is the Raft. And if you can get in and out of there, I like my odds.”

            Texting, Steve replies, “I wouldn’t be worried about the Raft, Frank.”

            Losing his temper again, Payne snaps, “I’m Constrictor! Frank Payne is dead!”

            And it should come off as childish and petulant, but Steve is thinking about the boy downstairs, grabbing onto him even as he lost consciousness, imbued from childhood with hatred. With purpose.

            Was there anything more poisonous than purpose?

            Steve brings up the satellite feed, and turns back to Payne. “Sure. You’re a big bad guy, and the whole world’s gonna tremble at your feet. Nothing gets to you, nothing will ever stop you, right?”

            Disgusted, Payne says, “Just put me on the quinjet—“

            “Your plans are so big, so important, that you don’t care about anything else. Certainly not destroying forty innocent kids. Because you’re the big—scary—bad guy, and Frank Payne, well, he’s dead.” Steve turns the phone to show Payne the screen. “Guess who’s not?”

            Payne stills.

            Steve leans forward, looking at the display. A young woman sits on the edge of a fountain, writing into a book. She has long brown hair that she keeps absentmindedly pushing back.

            “Mia seems like a good kid,” Steve says quietly. “Had a pretty rough time after her father died. Losing two parents by eighteen, that’s a curveball. Two turns in rehab. But she’s got a year sober. She’s tough. Or maybe she’s hanging by a thread and I just don’t see it, because I want to believe the best in people.” Putting two fingers to the screen, Steve zooms out slightly. “See that guy there on the bench? That’s my associate. 46, can you give us a wave?”

            The man in the cap looks up, and salutes.

            Payne is breathing heavily through his nose. Steve zooms back in on the girl. “Now, you want to tell me that you don’t care about what happens to her, you can try. But you know how we found you, Frank? The money you’ve been putting in that trust fund for her. She thinks she’s getting a scholarship. Got her life together, going to school, a year clean—but what is it going to do to her when I get my associate to walk over there and tell her about _you_?”

            “No,” Payne says quickly. He begins shaking his head. “You wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t—“

            “I’ve got over three dozen children who’re trained to pick up a gun instead of run when the authorities arrive. This is the _tip_ of what I’m willing to do to you right now.”

            Payne licks his lips, and Steve can practically see him weighing his options.

            Standing back up, Steve flicks off the feed. “Fine. 46—“

            “Wait!” Payne yelps.

            Steve arches a brow. He angles his phone unobtrusively to get whatever Payne is about to confess recorded on video.

            Payne shakes his head. “They’ll kill me—they’ll kill _her_ —“

            “Better give me something, Frank, because I’m about to make sure Mia Payne has a _really_ bad day—“

            “I’m just here on contract!” Payne bursts out. “I watch the plant, I keep the workers going, it’s not my op!”

            “Whose is it?”

            “I don’t know—“

            “Unacceptable,” Steve says, lifting a fingertip over the phone.

            Payne starts to push himself up, begging, “No—“ and Clint shoves him back down. Payne rocks himself back and forth slightly. “You have to protect her, if I tell you—“

            “I don’t have to do anything. You’re a child-soldier-using drug merchant. I’m trying to bargain with you, but you’re giving me nothing. So—“

            “The Corporation! I’m on contract for The Corporation!”

            Steve pulls back with a blink. Natasha steps up beside him. “The Corporation,” she echoes, glancing up at Steve. “Organized crime.”

            “I pulled the contract through them, through the power broker. I do this for six months, I get some money together—they even said they’d help me get guys after for my own plans—this wasn’t my idea, this wasn’t my op, I’m just doing a job. Leave my daughter alone.”

            Steve isolates the video, and asks, “Why let her think you’re dead in the first place? If you’re such a kind, caring father?”

            Payne snarls, “I am dead.” Something in him seems to take over. “The Constrictor has no family. He has no ties to the world.”

            Steve stops the video, and nods to Clint. “Get him up.” He turns to Natasha as Clint hauls Payne to his feet. “How far out is medical and forensics?”

            “Ten.”

            “Get him on the jet,” he says to Clint and Natasha. “I’ll wait for the others.”

            Clint drags Payne forward, muttering, “C’mon, Frank—“

            Payne digs in his heels, pleading, “What are you going to do? You’ll leave her alone—I’ll tell you anything, just—“ He stops himself, swinging wildly between self-disgust and desperation.

            Steve studies him, and says coldly, “You’ll tell interrogation everything no matter what.” He flips through the apps on his phone, and speaks directly to 46. “Target was uncooperative. Show the girl the video I just sent you.”

            46 gives the affirmative, and Payne starts screaming at him. Steve can see the surprise from both Natasha and Clint, but if either of them ever decide they’re in a place to judge him then hell might be the next thing to freeze over.

            “Get him on the jet,” Steve repeats, turning back to the building.

            Payne’s calling him every name in the book, swearing revenge, but Steve’s had a lot worse than a middle aged man with silly metal whips. He goes to stand watch over the children until help can come.

            And honestly, he doesn’t feel bad about Mia Payne. Not at all.

            He knows that’s a problem.


	2. Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So--on its first day, the story had 231 hits. WHERE DID ALL OF YOU COME FROM?!  
> Okay, got that out of my system. I'm just glad you're all here. Let's continue, shall we?

They get back to New York around 19:00, and Steve wants to go home and not think about anything that happened today. He doesn’t want to do anything but lay down and close his eyes.

            Instead, he switches his cell service back on as they get changed in the locker room. Sharon’s texted. Asking if they’re still on.

            Steve rubs his thumb along the bottom of the phone. He’s standing there in chinos and a white t-shirt, unable to break himself of old habits. He doesn’t want to see anyone. He doesn’t want to do a thing.

            But he texts, ‘Just got in. Will be home in a half hour.’

            He pulls out his jacket and slips his car keys into his pocket. “Sharon?” Clint asks. Steve nods, closing the locker. “She’s a good one. You should keep her around.”

            “Doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere.”

            He meant it to come out teasing, but it sounds wrong. Steve pauses, wondering if everyone knows. If they just look at him and they _know_. It’s the same old question, asked a million times.

            Clearing his throat, Steve lifts the phone as it vibrates. Sharon says she can be at the condo in an hour, asks if he wants her to pick up food. He replies that he can do it on the way home.

            Natasha comes around the corner, leaning against the lockers. She’s already got her face on, and every time Steve sees her like that it makes him uncomfortable. The mask isn’t terrible—it allows them out in public, and it’s not that the face it shows is an unfortunate one. It’s just not _her_ , and the dissonance of hearing her speak out of it is uncanny.

            “Which of you is giving me a ride home?” she asks, running a hand through her wet, scarlet curls.

            Buttoning his pants, Clint says, “You’re a big girl, Natasha. I’m sure you can figure something out.”

            Steve’s glad he’s already dressed. Again—gender equality, it’s awesome. He’s all for it. Being in the same locker room with a woman—well, he’s still got some ingrained things to work past.

            “If that’s an invitation for me to take _your_ car, so you can figure out _your_ way home—“

            “I’ve got you covered,” Steve says.

            Natasha meets his eyes, then smiles at Clint. “See? Chivalry.”

            “He just hasn’t known you long enough,” Clint counters. “Let him hit the five year mark, and he’ll get over it.”

            Steve nods over his shoulder. “You ready?”

            “Are you?” she replies, and he realizes he’s forgotten his own face.

            Steve grabs it off the top shelf of the locker. He presses the mask to his skin, and it moulds against his features. Faintly, he hears a little buzz as it comes online. It’s not uncomfortable to wear. It’s just strange.

            Natasha shrugs into her winter coat, pulling on a cap. As she passes Clint, she says, “You’ll pick me up for the briefing, right?”

            “Uh huh,” Clint replies, shrugging into a flannel shirt. “Night, guys.”

            Steve says his goodbyes, flipping his keys around on his index finger. He and Natasha don’t say anything as they walk to the garage. The facility is small, quiet, concealed. It’s underground, away from the light.

            His car is a slate grey Fiesta. It’s the first car that’s ever been his. His vehicle of choice was always a motorcycle, and when the weather for it was too bad, people just picked him up. In the new world, though, where he is pretending to be normal, a car is the kind of thing to have.

            A car is the kind of thing a man with a steady girlfriend, a steady job, a steady life has.

            It still feels too small for him. He’s pushed the seat back as far as he can, and he’s been driving it for six months, but Steve wants to squirm in it like a kid. He doesn’t complain about it. He wouldn’t dare.

            First thing Natasha does when the engine comes on is start playing with the stereo. Steve takes them up the ramp, asking, “How’s the work on the Cayman coming?”

            Natasha shrugs, answering, “She won’t be street legal, but give me another week and I think I can get her to 185 miles an hour.”

            Lowering the window, he leans out to get his eye scanned. The garage door opens, letting them into the winter night. “Out of mild curiosity, is there a reason you’d need to get to those speeds out here?”

            Natasha settles on something that sounds dreamy, an androgynous voice crooning in the background, before she sits back. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Steve. I play with the car, you play house, and Clint plays with trick arrows, all so we don’t lose our minds.”

            “You don’t have to stay here,” Steve reminds her, almost wishing she would go. Of the three of them, she’s the only one that they can’t hold anything over. He’s here because if he doesn’t, Sam lives a very different life. Clint’s here because he’s trying to keep hold of his family, even if it means doing it from half a continent away. That’s their deal, if they don’t want to spend the rest of their lives as fugitives. Natasha could just _leave_.

            Propping her head up, fingers stuck in her curls, Natasha smiles, almost wistful. “Nah. Fury called. This is what I do. I couldn’t not be here—if Fury’s here, and Clint’s here—and you too, by the way—guess I wouldn’t feel too good about disappearing.”

            _If you even could_ , Steve doesn’t say. Part of him wonders if even Natasha would be capable of completely disappearing anymore. He feels so trapped that he wonders if any of them will ever be free.

            And he recognizes that this is the kind of thing he should talk to Padma about. But he won’t. He knows he won’t.

            “Do me a favour?”

            “Does it involve whips and chains? Because I’ve had my fill of the former today, Steve.”

            Rolling his eyes, feeling his cheeks pinken, Steve says, “Call up Daawat, put in an order for me?”

            Natasha laughs softly. “How many years have you been out of the ice,” she teases, but pulling out her phone, “and you still don’t want to use the hands free while you’re driving?”

            “I don’t want to be distracted,” Steve replies. “I’m carrying precious cargo.”

            “Aw, Rogers, I bet you talk like that to all the girls.”

            The drawl of her voice—for one second she sounds so much like Bucky that Steve can’t even think. He refastens his hold on the steering wheel, looking at the empty, snow covered road. In the distance, he can see the lights from town, about ten miles away.

            He knows there’s not a mark—he doesn’t scar—but for a moment, he feels a tingle from the lower left of his back.

            Again, the exact kind of thing he should tell Padma. He’ll probably take it to his grave.

            Natasha turns into a different person on the phone. “Hi, it’s Aly. Oh, I’m good, how are you? Oh, that’s so great. Well, tell her I say hi. Yeah, I’m gonna get my regular, and Steve’s gonna get his regular order too. Yes, his lady friend _is_ in town. Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay, bye bye now.” She hangs up and her face goes flat as she slips the phone back into her pocket.

            Steve isn’t sure what else to say, so he asks, “Your arms okay?”

            Natasha shrugs. “Had worse. Are you okay?”

            “Not a scratch.”

            “Dumb blonde doesn’t look good on you, Steve.”

            He glances out at the trees. There’s a field behind an old sagging barbed wire fence. It’s snowy, just a big open space that looks untouched. For some reason, he’d really like to turn off the car and just walk out into it.

            “This about the girl?”

            “You know it’s not, but if you want to reduce it to that, we can say it’s about the girl.” He can feel Natasha’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t look at her. He keeps his eyes forward. Always forward, always moving. “We’re not going to say anything about it. To Fury. He probably already knows, but that’s because Nick knows everything. Officially, though—if anything about this was official—it didn’t happen. And Payne’s already been passed over to interrogation. He’s basically been wiped from the face of the earth.”

            “So what are we even talking about?” Steve says, putting an edge on his voice.

            Natasha doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He thinks that she’s going to tell him to never mind, or change the subject, because Natasha Romanoff knows she’s not the right person to throw stones.

            But she says, “You wrecked that girl’s life. For no reason.”

            “And? You want to compare ledgers?”

            “Don’t be testy, Steve. I know what I am. We all know what I am. But a year ago—I would have never pictured you doing something like that.”

            “Like what?”

            “Like something I would have done,” she states bluntly.

            Steve frowns. He doesn’t want to get into this. He wonders if Clint turned down giving her a ride so that this conversation would happen. They’ve obviously already talked about what to tell Fury. “I’m not sure how many times I have to say that I’ve got no desire to be held up atop the impossible pedestal that people put Captain America on. That was a fiction. And I’m not Captain America.”

            “I’m not talking about that. I’m saying, the Steve Rogers I know would never have done that.”

            Losing his temper a little, Steve snaps, “Well, Steve Rogers has had a pretty terrible year.”

            A few seconds go by, and Natasha says, “Is Steve Rogers only going to refer to himself in the third person from now on?”

            He can’t help but lose some of the tension, hearing the smile in her voice. “He might,” Steve retorts.

            Steve wants to pull the car over when she reaches out and gives his arm one affectionate, absent minded stroke. “No one’s saying you have to be perfect, Steve. Just don’t crack up on me. The world is tough enough.”

            He wants to stop the car and tell her everything that’s been going through his head since January. He wants to unburden on someone, anyone, and he’s desperate to do it. Maybe if he did, some of this pressure inside his chest would subside.

            Instead, he replies, “Do my best.”

 

He turns on the lights when he gets inside, closing the door with his foot and locking it without even thinking. Slipping out of his boots, he goes to the open kitchen, setting down the bags of palak paneer and pakora and naan.

            His condo is more than enough room. It’s larger than the quarters he chose for himself at the Avengers facility. All he’d needed was a bedroom and bathroom. The bare necessities. This, however, is the home of a man with a life.

            The brick is exposed, leading up to high ceilings with brass light fixtures that hang down. He dusts those at least once a week, climbing on a ladder to do so. There’s a couch that faces a TV almost as long as the sofa, mounted on the wall. He has bookshelves that are full to the brim. History and art mostly.

            It’s his second go at having a real place for just himself since coming out of the ice. There was the apartment in DC, but after everything that happened there—Bucky had put bullets into Fury through a _wall_ , for Christ’s sake, and the place had been bugged the whole time he lived there—Steve had abandoned DC for the compound and its simplicity in New York.

            But now he is a shadow soldier, and that means pretending to live a regular life. Regular people have homes. Even though he would have been comfier just living at the base. When it’s only him in the condo, and that is often, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

            Steve glances down at his outfit. Sure, he’s dressed the same way he was in basic, but it’s not like Sharon expects him to impress her. It’s only a night at home. They’ll have food, and watch a movie. Like normal people.

            _Stop saying that_ , and the voice is Bucky’s. The voice that cuts through the bullshit is always Bucky’s. _You ain’t normal. No need to pretend in your own home_.

            So Steve doesn’t change, because this is what he’s comfortable in. He takes out the containers, setting out plates on the island and cutlery too. He fills two water glasses and places them by the plates, then steps back. Everything looks fine.

            That done, Steve goes and sits down on the couch.

            He doesn’t turn on music, or the TV. He simply folds his hands together and waits, thoughts casually bumping off one another in his perpetually numb head.

            The kids made him as angry as he’d been in a while. Working under blackmail for SHIELD, that keeps his temper at a constant low simmer. But the kids…fighting when even an adult would have given up.

            _Would you have given up_?

            No, but Steve had been a kid with something to prove. He hadn’t been forced into servitude, God only knows how. Like those poor kids….

            He pushes his hair off his forehead. It’s getting a little long. He needs it cut, but he gets nervous, having a stranger in the town that close to his face. Steve worries about people looking at him and seeing exactly what’s inside. He knows he’s always been an open book.

            He thinks about Brooklyn. He thinks about Brooklyn every day, and isn’t sure how he keeps breathing.

            Steve hears the treads on the front steps, and pushes himself up. By the time the keys are in the door, he’s back at the counter, swiping the cutlery up into his hands and pretending like he was just setting things out.

            Sharon comes through the door, rosy cheeked from the cold, with her earmuffs on. Steve always teases her for them, saying they look like the sound isolation headphones she wears at the shooting range. “Hey,” she says.

            “Hey,” Steve says with a smile. “You’re letting the cold in.”

            “Can you feel the cold?” Sharon retorts, pulling off her earmuffs. She bumps the door closed with her hip, and does up all the locks. There’s four. Steve can’t help himself. Sharon gives him a slightly amused look as she discards her boots. “You just walked through the door, didn’t you.”

            “Pretty much.”

            Steve goes to help her out of her coat, and she sighs, but he knows she doesn’t mean it. They spoke about it once. He puts her coat on a hanger, automatically using his toe to line up her boots instead of the haphazard way she leaves them by the door.

            He leans in to kiss her, and is startled when she shies away. A hand between them, Sharon laughs softly. “Forgot something, huh?”

            Mortified, Steve says, “Do I need to brush my teeth?”

            Affectionate, Sharon steps closer. It isn’t until she reaches up and starts peeling off his electronic face that he realizes he left the mask on. “Much as I enjoy my other boyfriend,” she says, removing the mask, “I think I like you more.” She sets the mask down on the counter, then reaches up to touch his cheekbone with her thumb. When she smiles at him, it’s always with such soft fondness. He knows this is a woman who spends most of her life chasing terrorists for a living, and they sure as hell don’t get to see this side of her. With him, she gets to be someone else. “There. There’s my handsome man.”

            Steve tilts his head down a little, and she leans up, giving him a quick kiss. She loops her arms around his neck, studying his face.

            “Long day, honey?” she asks.

            Steve has known his whole life that this is what he’s supposed to want. A beautiful woman, the end of the day, relative safety. There’s food waiting and a warm bed, and he knows what comes next. This is supposed to be the plan.

            “Yeah.”

            “Me too,” she replies, putting her hands to the back of his head and angling it down so they can rest their foreheads together. “Only mine was marginally less classified than yours, so I guess you can hear me rant about ISIS while we eat.”

            “Gladly,” Steve says, and he does mean it. Anything to get outside of his own head.

            Sharon pushes away from him. “Got you something.”

            “Oh come on.” He can’t help but be pleased. Sharon gives good presents, and so does he, and it’s one of the ways they show that they care about each other.

            Reaching into her overnight bag, she pulls out a DVD case, holding it up in front of her face. Her mouth is covered but her eyes telegraph excitement.

            “ _Princess…Mon-oh-noke_ ,” Steve reads.

            Sharon drops the DVD in dismay. “Mononoke. I’ve told you about this. It’s the same guy who did _Spirited Away_.”

            Steve perks up. “Oh. Yeah, I loved that one.”

            “I know you did. Because I’m a good girlfriend.”

            He wraps an arm around her back, bending to kiss her once more. “Yes you are.”

            And Steve might play his part well, but he’s pretty sure he’s not a very good boyfriend.

 

The movie’s darker than he expects, but he should realize by now that the Japanese ones Sharon brings over always are. Steve’s done his reading, and even with everything he’s been through, he thanks his lucky stars that he avoided the Pacific theatre. When Eboshi gets her arm bitten off, Steve contracts into himself.

            Sharon fits perfectly under his arm, and he keeps a hand on her hair, stroking it softly. Occasionally she’ll drift off, he can feel it, but she only got back in from Brussels yesterday, keeping watch as the EU continues to spasm. Sometimes when they’re together, she’ll wake with a start, hand automatically going to her hip, trying to find her sidearm. Steve understands the impulse implicitly.

            They’ve been together for six months, basically since he got drafted for SHIELD’s black ops initiative. They had talked a couple times over the phone since he landed back in the States, while he was under constant guard, and they saw each other once. She’d been even more beautiful than he remembered, but the fact of the matter was, they didn’t really know one another. There had been a mutual attraction there, sure, but little more.

            Once he was able to settle, he didn’t know what else to do. He reached out, thinking the moment had probably long since passed. Even though he hadn’t asked, he figured she would be seeing someone. Only she wasn’t. The life of a counter terrorism agent was about as stable as an Avenger’s. She hadn’t had the time. So she reached back.

            He had been relieved that she was an unknown person. Steve knew it was weird—picking up with Peggy’s niece. He’d tried to pretend it wasn’t, but Bucky had punctured that illusion pretty neatly, and landed a blow that Steve hadn’t wanted to admit could exist: _you traded Peg in for a newer model, a pale imitation_. But Sharon isn’t anything like Peg.

            Well—that isn’t _entirely_ true. She believes in justice and freedom and all the good causes Peggy devoted her life to. Except where Peggy was hard and unyielding, Sharon can compromise. Peggy spent much of her life having to prove herself capable to the men around her, and Sharon doesn’t carry that burden. She knows she is more than equal to every one of her colleagues, male or otherwise.

            Sharon is kind when she’s away from work, and ruthless when she needs to be. She is a dead shot who loves animated films as much as Steve, if not more, and a vegetarian. She doesn’t drink coffee and she can match Natasha and Clint for shots when they go to the bar. Her hair goes gently wavy when she doesn’t straighten it, and she will fasten it back lazily while they eat breakfast. In the mornings, when she wakes up, she’ll blink slowly, then smile.

            Steve is not in love with her. He is trying to be.

            The credits come on, and Steve gives it a moment, not wanting to wake her yet. He rests his head on top of hers, fingers tangling into her beautiful blond hair. He is lucky to have her. He is so goddamn lucky, he _knows_ that.

            _This is the best you can hope for. It’s not going to get better than this._

_Martyr_ , the other voice pops up.

            Shoving it back down, Steve picks up the remote. He turns off the movie, and Sharon stirs. Patting his flat stomach, she murmurs, “Movie over?”

            “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says, tossing the remote aside.

            “I slept through all the good parts.”

            “Miss Carter, I think the fact that you know which ones are the good parts tells me you’ve seen this movie more than plenty.”

            She stretches an arm across him, hugging him. “Don’t think you can use logic on me, Mr. Rogers.”

            Wrapping his arms around her, Steve replies, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

            “What was your favourite part?” Sharon breathes, still half asleep.

            Steve thinks about it. “I bet everyone says the tree spirits, don’t they.”

            Sharon chuckles. “ _Everyone_ says the tree spirits.”

            “I liked the Forest Spirit best.”

            “Of course you do.”

            He lifts his brows, practically hearing her eye roll. “What’s that mean?”

            Sharon sits back against the couch, smiling crookedly. “The symbol of everlasting life, dying for our sins? Didn’t I read somewhere that you were an altar boy?”

            Blushing, Steve says, “Ah, don’t psychoanalyze me.”

            She pauses, then replies, “Well, someone needs to.”

            She says it with a smile, but Steve pauses. There’s an undercurrent there, and he doesn’t like it. Then again, maybe he’s just overreacting, after the conversation with Natasha. Or all the appointments with Padma that he’s lied his way through.

            Sharon reaches up, scratching behind his ear the way he likes. He bends into the touch, almost sick for some kind of contact. He feels like a hypocrite sometimes (most times) with her, but he can’t help but get as close to her as possible. “My favourite is Mononoke.”

            Steve barks. “Of _course_.”

            She jabs him in the pec, making him yelp, and then laugh. “What’s that mean?”

            Playfully fighting back and forth with her, Steve answers, “Feral girl who runs with the wolves? Can’t imagine why you’d go for that.”

            “Feral?” Sharon exclaims, and now she’s using her leg too, and Steve knows what will be next. “Feral? Did you just call me—“

            She starts to leverage herself, and Steve just pulls her into his lap, pinning her against his chest. “Yeah, I think I did.”

            Sharon pretends to glare at him. She has beautiful brown eyes. She is a beautiful, beautiful woman. “You know, it’s not attractive when you use your superpowers to win a fight.”

            “It kind of is.”

            “Nope,” she says, but she’s starting to smile.

            Steve smirks, and teases, “Feral.”

            Beginning to squirm, Sharon says, “I’ll _show_ you feral—“

            She bends forward, kissing him, and Steve lets her loose with a laugh. He reaches up to her face, hooking his thumbs in front of her ears, the rest of his fingers behind, just like he was taught.

 

It isn’t like he has to think of other people when they do this. He’s not that terminal a case.

            She’s on top of him, like always, and Steve reaches up to brush his thumbs over her nipples, knowing how she she’ll react to that. Sharon exhales, meeting his eyes, and rolls her hips down against him, over and over again, making his eyes close with pleasure.

            She is the first girlfriend Steve has ever had. Only took thirty four years, or ninety nine, if you want to get technical about it. And it’s not like he was a virgin when they started this, but it was close, and she’s the only woman he’s been with more than once. He’s had to learn her body, learn what pleases her, and it’s not because he _has_ to, it’s because he wants to. He wants to make Sharon happy, of course he does. She’s perfect, and he wants to make her happy.

            They’re on the floor by the bed. They’re on the floor because Steve destroyed the first bed.

            They’re making love. They don’t fuck. They don’t fuck because the one time they did, Sharon had a black bruise on her hip that lasted a week and a half and a sprained wrist, and Steve was beside himself.

            She’s on top, because he’s scared of hurting her.

            They rarely speak when they do this. Steve’s always worried about what to say, and he thinks that he’d just burble ‘you’re beautiful’ repeatedly until it no longer had any meaning. Sharon doesn’t say much either, but she seems confident in her silence in a way that Steve isn’t. She knows what she’s doing—maybe he’s not _in_ love with her, not like he should be, but he genuinely loves that _about_ her. He admires it, wishes he understood how it was done.

            She tosses her hair over her shoulders, letting her head fall back. He is simply here right now, a thing to take pleasure from, and that’s fine. He wants to be useful. He wants to be useful for her, for anyone, terribly.

            He likes that she doesn’t wait for him. She wants this, and she takes it. That’s always been his kind of woman. The ones who don’t apologize.

            She rocks against him, hard, and Steve lets out a moan, fingers digging against the wood floor instead of her. The floor is pitted from their nights together, but it’s better than the alternative.

            “Steve.”

            He looks up at her, surprised, breath beginning to stagger in his throat.

            Sharon’s gazing at him, pupils wide in the dark. “Tell me,” she whispers.

            He doesn’t know what she means. What is she asking for?

            She says it again, “Tell me,” and the request terrifies Steve, only he doesn’t know why. They’re just words, meaningless words, it’s not even a full sentence and there’s no context. Tell her what? What does she want to hear? He’ll tell her whatever she wants, but he needs to understand the question.

            Her hands grasp his sides as she bears down on him, shutting her eyes. He feels her come around him, constricting him, and he wishes he could tell her what she wants to hear.

 

Vinegar Hill is burning.

            This is the home he grew up in. This is where his father’s picture was displayed at his mother’s bedside. This is where his maimeó slept. And all of it is on fire.

            He stands in the middle of the house and in every room at the same time. It smells like plastic burning, and he wants to be sick. This is home. This is home, and it’s his fault, it’s all his fault that it’s burning—

            He turns, and a man in a double buttoned blue coat sits on the floor. He has grey eyes that look like they’re threatening to go to half mast, and his left arm has been torn off. He sits in a pool of his own blood, the fire reflecting off his face. He is the most beautiful and terrible thing Steve has ever seen.

            Looking up, the man says flatly, “Where you been?”

            _I was coming for you,_ Steve means to say. _I’ll come for you, I’ll always come for you._

Before Steve can answer, a voice behind him wavers up from the depths. “Captain…America….”

 

Steve wakes with a jolt. His hand goes out, trying to find his shield, and he panics for a second when he only finds empty air.

            Then he remembers. He’s not alone. He doesn’t keep the shield by the bed when Sharon’s over.

            Slumping against the pillow, Steve closes his eyes in exhausted dismay. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, as they say. He looks at the clock. It’s a little after one in the morning. He’s had maybe an hour’s worth of sleep. Not a record by any stretch of the imagination.

            He realizes he’s not the only one awake. When Sharon sleeps, her breaths go shallow and rhythmic. Now, though, she is merely silent.

            Steve waits for her to say something. When he wakes her up, she’ll usually rub his back, and sometimes it helps. She’ll always fall back asleep before he does, but it feels good, to have someone care like that, to make the effort.

            This time, she doesn’t say anything, or do anything.

            The urge to flee is too strong. Steve slips out from under the covers, whispering, “Gonna get some air,” and leaves the bedroom.

            He walks down the short hallway to the open space of the kitchen and living room, rubbing his eyes. He’s in pajama pants and a sleeveless tee. His feet make no sound on the floor, even to his hyper sensitive ears.

            _Don’t crack up_ , he hears Natasha say. Easier said than done.

            Steve gets the sweater from the front closet. It’s big and navy blue, a heavy knit that buttons down the front. Pulling it on, he walks over to the bookcase closest to the balcony door. He bends down, selecting a massive tome with a battered dust jacket that looks about thirty years old. The title is _The Wars of German Unification, Part One_. Not something that anyone would think to open.

            Steve opens it. The middle’s been hollowed out. He takes out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, putting the book back on the shelf, before stepping into the slippers he keeps by the door. Unlocking it, he moves out into the snowy, star filled night.

            He brushes off the bench, and takes a seat. Slouching as low as he can, he rests his heels on the railing. With his long legs, he can just make it. Selecting a cigarette, he puts it between his lips and lights it up, before stuffing the half full pack and the lighter into one of the pockets on the sweater.

            Steve inhales, deep, on the cigarette, and looks up at the sky. He never saw skies like this when he was a kid. Until he was in his twenties, he’d only been out of the city once.

            He remembers it, almost perfectly. Bucky got his driver’s license as soon as he was able, even though Steve told him it was a waste of money. What the hell did he need a driver’s license for in Brooklyn? But Bucky had been undeterred, smirking, “You’re just jealous, buddy.”

            And yeah, maybe that had been part of it. Between the partial blindness in the one eye—not to mention the colour blindness—Steve knew the only time he’d ever get behind the wheel was the bumper cars at Coney. Even then, he was a menace.

            Then, a few months after Sarah died, Bucky told him they were going on a trip. Steve had thought he meant to another borough. But Bucky showed up at the house Steve was on the verge of losing in Bill McCullough’s old as dirt Chrysler Imperial, arm hooked over the side of the door, saying slick as anything, “You call for a cab, Rogers?”

            The whole time, he wouldn’t tell Steve where they were going. They passed the places Steve knew, moving almost stunningly fast to places he’d never seen before. He had been nervous, because Steve knew a few things for certain in life, and one of them was always his surroundings. Brooklyn was safety. This was all _new_. And when it was them on the road and everything around them turned to trees and grass and nothing else, he’d been speechless.

            “You know,” Bucky said, “you look like most rubes do when they come _into_ the apple,” and Steve clamped his mouth shut.

            When they finally stopped, it was coming up on evening, and Bucky parked by a little lake where there was no one else. He brought out two blankets, laying one down on the grass behind the car. They sat down on it, leaning back against the bumper, and Bucky threw the other blanket over Steve, before saying a second later, “What, are you gonna hog it?” Steve punched him in the arm, then shared the blanket with him.

            Bucky brought out sandwiches his ma made for them, and they watched the sun go down and the stars come up, and Steve had been awestruck. Sure, he couldn’t see that well, but good God—out here, there was no missing all those little lights in the sky. There were so many. There were so many that he didn’t know how the sky even went black at night.

            For maybe the fifth time that day, Steve asked, “Why’d we come out here?”

            And Bucky just shrugged, replied, “No reason.” He gazed up at the sky, and Steve had wondered what it looked like to him. What the world looked like through those perfect eyes. When Bucky turned to him, Steve quickly looked away, afraid he’d been caught staring. “Hey—I know you don’t want to hear me flap my gums about this anymore, but if I don’t get my own place soon, I’m gonna resort to murder, Stevie. If it’s not the kids, it’s my parents. I can’t take it.”

            Steve knew that Bucky was lying through his teeth. After twelve years, he could always tell. He knew Mrs. Barnes had made these sandwiches, fully aware of what Bucky was going to ask Steve. He knew these blankets came off Rebecca and William’s beds. He knew that every story Bucky had told about how awful his family was the past few months had been a lie, and he knew that Bucky and his whole family loved him, as much as he loved them. If there had been any room in the house, they would have asked him to move in with them. But there wasn’t. So it had to be Bucky and him.

            Steve thought about what his mother had said. When she sat him down at fifteen, and what she’d made him promise before she died. He prayed that she’d forgive him, and said to Bucky, “Guess we’d better start finding a cave of our own, then.”

            That was over eighty years now. Here he is, in his own home, looking at the stars.

            He couldn’t have imagined how many stars there really were, not when his sight had been so bad. Now Steve looks up, and thinks there are probably a million _million_ points of light.

            _And how many are gunning for us_? he wonders.

            Steve takes another drag on the cigarette, holding it pinched between his thumb and index finger. It is a new vice, and he is pretty embarrassed by it. But for one, how many vices does he really have? For another, it’s not like he’s going to get cancer.

            Exhaling smoke towards the sky, Steve tries to simply see the beauty of his surroundings. His condo is on the outskirts of town, a small place of 6700 people where all the shops save the grocery store and gas stations close at six. The whole place makes Steve feel kind of itchy. Most of his life has been spent living in cities. During the war, there had been plenty of sleeping outdoors, but there were still always people around, something happening. Here, it is so quiet and still and dark.

            Frowning, he tells himself, _Steve, you have got to get yourself together. You really don’t have it that bad. You’ve got a home, you’ve got a good woman, you’re doing just about the only thing you’re good at—it could be a hell of a lot worse_.

            No matter how many times he thinks it, though, it refuses to stick. He is drowning in self-pity, and therefore self-disgust. He has no idea how much longer he can keep his head above water.

            _Stop your bitching. There’s hundreds of thousands of people in Brooklyn who’d beat you senseless, if they could. If they could do anything_.

            Steve closes his eyes, turning off the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always come find me at e-sebastian.tumblr.com (I can never get the link to insert properly, alas. I think it's got something to do with the dash).


	3. Looking Good on Paper

He wakes up late, which for him means eight o’clock. With a sigh, Steve reaches back across the bed. He’s on the right hand side—it’s always been his side of the bed, no matter who else was in there with him, even if he’s alone. His hand meets empty mattress.

            Slowly, he unfurls. When he sleeps, he knows he practically goes fetal. Sharon teased him about it a few times, but stopped awhile back. Steve thinks she could tell how uncomfortable he was about it, even if he couldn’t say it. Rolling onto his back, he stretches, letting out a yawn.           

            Briefing in two hours.

            If it goes okay, and there’s no immediate orders, he and Sharon are going to drive down to Albany for a few days. There’s an animated film festival that they’re both excited about. They don’t go out into crowds much together, and he’ll have to wear his mask the whole time, but Steve knows this is something he has to do. People in relationships do things like this.

            He gets to his feet, pulling his arms behind himself as he pads across the floor. His toes can feel some of the dimples he’s left in the wood. “Morning,” he calls.

            “Hey. There’s coffee.”

            “Brush m’ teeth first.”

            “I think you might have those things backwards, Steve.”

            “Eh,” he growls, before turning on the bathroom light.

            After a couple minutes, he’s looking in the mirror. His face never changes much. Stubble comes in, and he shaves it off, but that’s about it. Theoretically, nothing about Steve’s face is wrong, or even gives much away. He hopes no one sees what’s happening underneath.

            He messes with his hair a little. It’s getting silly. It’s never been this long in his life. But he’s only had it cut once since he shaved it back in January. He has to venture out and trust someone not to brush up too hard against his face. He knows he could ask if there’s someone in the organization who could do it for him, but the loss of autonomy has already been so great that Steve doesn’t think he could stomach it.

            Steve goes to the kitchen, finding Sharon at the table, the paper out. He knows he can just read it online, but he likes to have the real thing. Her leg’s pulled up underneath herself, and like always, she’s put her hair back in a big brown clip.

            “Morning, gorgeous,” Steve says, leaning down to kiss her.

            Sharon kisses him back lightly. “Hey handsome.”

            “Did you say you made coffee?”

            “I did.”

            Steve makes an impressed face, walking over to the machine. “A fella could get used to this.” He opens the cupboard and asks, “Did you want tea or anything? I could make you something.”

            He’s pulling out his favourite mug, not registering her pause. “Steve.”

            “Yeah, sweetheart?” He picks up the coffee pot.

            “This isn’t working.”

            The words don’t make sense. He turns and looks at her, brows furrowed. “Sorry?”

            Sharon looks surprised by herself, brown eyes a little wide. But they stop doing that almost immediately, and she repeats herself. Only this time she sounds sure. “This isn’t working.”

            He’s standing there with the coffee pot in his hand, still in his pajamas. It’s snowing outside, and she’s lit up with the early morning light, and his mouth tastes of toothpaste.

            Oh.

            _Oh_.

            Steve doesn’t know what to do. What is he supposed to do? Or say? He’s never done this before. He’s never had to consider doing something like this before.

            Instinct kicks in. He’s holding a possibly dangerous implement. So he puts the pot back on the coffee maker. He walks around the kitchen island, then stops. It feels too close to her, to sit at the table. Instead, he turns one of the stools to face her, and he sits down.

            Everything is tingling.

            She’s watched him the whole time, waiting for him to react. Steve has seen people break up before in real life, has seen it more times than he can count in the movies. He knows that break ups are supposed to be filled with vitriol, and blame has to be placed somewhere.

            He already knows where the blame lies.

            “I’m sorry,” he says.

            Sharon drops her head, and he realizes that she thought he was going to argue. She thought he would fight to keep her. He’s messed this up again, he’s even failed at splitting up, for _Christ’s_ sake.

            “Sharon—“

            “What am I doing?” she murmurs, propping up her head. “Oh God, what am I doing.” She sits back, looking at him a bit helplessly. “I didn’t know I was going to do this, Steve. I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be sorry,” he says honestly. “I wouldn’t want to date me either.”

            Face screwing up, Sharon says, “ _No_ , don’t—“ She lifts her hands, before dropping them. “You are wonderful. You are a great guy, and I care about you so, so much. I know you’re going to try and take this all on yourself, but that’s not how this works. We were both in this. We both take the blame.”

            “No—I know I wasn’t—“

            “ _Steve_ ,” Sharon insists. “Don’t act like I wasn’t here too. We were fifty fity in this. Don’t act like I’m not your equal, because then this will get ugly instead of just being really, really sad.”

            He doesn’t know how to respond. She’s being nice, but he knows this was his fault. It’s his fault because he couldn’t love her. He was supposed to, and he’s just not capable. He’s broken. He’s defective.

            “Why now?” he asks instead.

            Sharon exhales, shrugging, a bit at a loss. “I was sitting here, and you came in and—everything I’ve been thinking the last couple of months sort of formed a point, and now here we are.”

            “And what have you been thinking the last few months?”

            She doesn’t want to say it, but maybe she can see that Steve isn’t going to let it go. Sharon closes her eyes briefly, before answering, “Steve—we’ve been together half a year, and I—still don’t feel like I know you.” It is like a stab in the guts. It’s just like he suspected. He is broken. “I know what music you like, and what you’ll say when I walk in the door, and the sounds you make when you’re having a bad dream, but I don’t know—how you feel about things. What you’re thinking. And I can’t blame you, I honestly can’t blame you, for being closed off. But…Steve, we both know that’s not going to change.”

            He thinks of all the times, in the beginning, that she said, ‘Penny for your thoughts’ and he’d brushed the question aside, always turning it back to her. Eventually, she stopped. He hadn’t been concerned by the change; he had been relieved.

            “I know it sounds right now like I’m putting the blame on you, and I promise I’m not. I stayed because I didn’t want to admit that this wasn’t—what I wanted. And I—I wanted this to work so badly, Steve. I really did. You and I—together, we look good on paper. The reality of it is that we just _look_ like we fit. I let this drag out, I acted like nothing was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that to you.”

            “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, unable to look at her face. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

            “Steve—“

            “I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted.”

            After a few seconds, Sharon says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted either.”

            They sit there, silence filling in all the spaces.

 

He drives to work with his brain in a bit of a fog. Steve knows he should be upset. And he is. Of course he is. It doesn’t feel good to hear what he suspected—that he isn’t the kind of person suited for a relationship, and that shows no signs of changing.

            But he had made the effort.

            Hadn’t he?

            He logs into the building, parking the car, then takes the elevator down a few levels, deep into the bunker. He has a job to do. Thank God for that. If he can focus on the job, instead of going home—

            She took her things. She had a drawer at his place, and a toothbrush, and some other stuff. He tried to carry everything to the car for her, but she’d demurred, looking embarrassed.

            Before she left, she’d hugged him. He hugged her back. Was that normal?

            _Does it matter? No, because it’s over now. Get your head on straight._

Steve rolls his shoulders, straightening as he walks off the elevator. The door to Fury’s office is open a few inches. Steve taps on it twice before stepping inside.

            The window has a hologram that makes it look like a sunny day outside. It almost feels like sunlight on his face. Fury sits behind a big desk, looking unimpressed, but that’s his default state. Steve’s never asked how he feels about this operation. He’s never asked what he thinks about what happened last year, and Fury’s never given anything away. He has another office, a real office, out on the compound a few miles from this location. This is a black site. Need to know only.

            Clint and Natasha are already seated, and Steve worries for a moment that he’s late. He doesn’t let on, taking a seat.

            Without so much as a prelude, Fury pulls up a three dimensional display. A holographic vial slowly spins, specifications and ingredients listed alongside it. “The substance you retrieved from Paraguay is related to the yerba mate tree. Near as the lab can tell after looking at it for twelve hours, it’s a genetically modified version of the plant, designed to create a higher, more effective yield.”

            “Yerba mate?” Clint echoes, dubious. “Like the stuff in energy drinks?”

            “This is a little more than your standard _Ilex paraguariensis_.”

            “Now you’re just showing off.”

            “Romanoff’s not the only one who speaks Latin. The yerba mate has derivatives of xanthine—boost your energy. People use it to make tea, put it in energy drinks, like you said. But what they were working on in Chaco—preliminary results say that once the extract from these new trees are processed, the results will be considerably longer lasting.”

            “How much longer lasting?” asks Steve.

            “Possibly indefinite.” Fury shrugs. “Possibly.”

            Steve raises his brows as Clint says, “I’m sorry, those kids were working on making eternal go juice?” Barton sits back, crossing his arms. “Sign me up.”

            “Well, if you’ll remember Newton’s third law, you’ll know that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

            “Obviously.”

            “So—“

            “So people’s hearts are probably exploding out of their chests if they take the stuff.” Fury casts his one eye at Clint, who shrugs. “Just jumping ahead. Like I don’t know Newton’s laws of motion.”

            “Well, you are circus folk,” Natasha says.

            Steve thinks about it, and lets out a disgusted sigh. “The kids—they were wearing masks, but the ventilation down there wasn’t great. If they haven’t been breathing it in, they could still have been absorbing it for months.”

            “That’s why they used kids,” Natasha reasons. “They heal faster than adults. Adapt faster too.”

            He shakes his head. Just because a thing is logical doesn’t make it right. “Any word on them from medical?”

            Fury answers, “Too early to tell. A couple of them have already gone into heart failure.”

            “Jesus _Christ_ ,” Clint mutters.

            “The rest are being sedated with enough tranquilizers to bring down a herd of elephants. Not sure how fast they’ll adapt to that.” For a second, Steve thinks he might detect a hint of dismay in Fury’s voice. He wonders if Fury feels it too—this helplessness, this impotent rage at the terrible decisions other people make. But the second passes, and Steve’s pretty sure Fury will forget about the children as soon as the display goes down.

            “What else did Payne give up?”

            Fury leans back in his chair, bouncing a little. “Well, Frank wasn’t too eager to talk. Seeing as he’s taken a swan dive into a lake of crazy. He’s gonna need a few days before he levels out.”

            “Where will he be?” Steve asks, maybe because he’s perverse.

            With that one eye coolly on him, Fury just says, “Far from here.”

            Meaning need to know. Meaning Steve is just another cog in the machine. Not a leader, not an Avenger. Just a shadow, doing the work that needs to be done, that better people can’t be seen doing.

            “But,” Fury says, “he gave us enough.” He reaches under his desk. “This takes me back. The Power Broker.”

            He drops a manila file folder. Steve’s almost stupidly glad to see it. Everything here is gadgets and screens and holograms, and sometimes he just wants to see paper.

            Fury taps at his motion sensor keyboard, and the display changes. A young man with a serious face and mid-sized afro looks out at them. He’s handsome, with a flat nose and warm eyes, and he wears a graduation cap. He can’t be more than eighteen, the picture obviously taken a long time ago.

            “Curtiss Jackson,” says Fury. “From Charlotte, North Carolina. I first ran into Jackson in 1995. He was a mid-level guy working for some unsavoury people, and moving his way up fast. Good business sense, but ruthless. Had something to prove, too.” He taps a key, and the picture of Jackson changes.

            Gone is the average boy in the picture. Instead, there is a monster of a man wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of blue underwear, his muscles gleaming as he poses on a stage. Clint covers his snort by putting a fist in front of his mouth.

            “He might look like the kind of guy who’d thump you to death when he wasn’t busy trying to be early era Schwarzenegger, but right from the start, he wasn’t one for getting his hands dirty. He had men almost from the beginning. Only when the big show came—“ Fury opens the file, and tosses a photo out on the desk. It takes Steve a second to start identifying body parts. “He demonstrated that just because he didn’t like getting his hands dirty, didn’t mean he’d hesitate.”

            Natasha tilts her head to study the photo, barely phased. “Is this Caracas?” Fury nods, and Clint lets out a low whistle.

            “Jackson staged a coup d’état on the Caracas family business. Took it over, remade it in his own image. That’s when he started going by the name Power Broker. Then around 2004, we start hearing rumors that he’s looking into human experimentation. Two years of investigating, we were never able to catch him at anything. Not a single thing. Then he went ahead and took himself off the board.”

            Lifting the file, Fury pulls out another photo. He pauses, then passes it to Clint.

            Barton takes it into his hands, then his eyes widen. “What—the hell,” he breathes.

            “Jackson apparently tried some of his own medicine. As you can see, it didn’t work out.”

            Clint hands the photo to Natasha, whose eyebrows raise slightly. For her, that’s a ‘Fuck, is _that_ unfortunate.’ Steve leans over to look, and says, “Wow.”

            There’s muscles that vaguely make the shape of a person. Veins pop from bulges and curves of brown skin, and almost very little about it looks human until the eyes. They are almost unbearably human, wide open and leaking with misery.

            “That’s the last known photograph of Curtiss Jackson,” says Fury. “He’s spent the last decade in seclusion, running the business from a secure location. We have no idea where.”

            “Can he _move_?” Steve asks, unable to help his horror.

            “The nurse who snuck the photo out said no. She stopped filing reports two days later, and no one’s heard from her since.”

            Steve can’t stop looking at the photo. And all of a sudden, he’s thinking of MODOK. His body was so frail, his head so huge, that he couldn’t even stand unaided.

            _Perfection is abomination_ —

            Steve pulls his eyes away, crossing his arms. He’s very much aware of how large his arms are when he does that. “So he’s still working on human experimentation.”

            “It would appear so. With the help of—“ The screen changes to a man with a long face and grey hair, wearing a pink shirt and purple tie under his lab coat. “Dr. Karl Malus.”

            “I’ve heard that name,” says Natasha.

            “We kept tabs on the doctor due to the nature of his research. He’s a surgeon, with a master’s in biochemistry. He also has a more than working knowledge of radiology and genetic manipulation.”

            Natasha sets the grotesque picture of the living muscles back down on the desk. “Wait, was this the guy who wanted to do the live study on enhanced?” There’s an edge to her voice, and Steve doesn’t know why.

            “Indeed. Dr. Malus was very interested in what made certain people—different.”

            There’s a low fire in Natasha’s eyes, and Steve knows trouble’s coming when that happens, so he steps in to ask the questions. “So who was he working for? Before Jackson, I mean.”

            “Harvard. Almost entirely pure research.”

            “If SHIELD was keeping an eye on him, I imagine HYDRA was too.”

            Fury says, “Apparently Dr. Malus was a little too extreme for HYDRA.”

            Steve blinks a few times. “Project Insight. The—“

            _Winter Soldier_.

            “The Red Skull. Seventy years of espionage. And this guy was too over the edge for _them_?”

            “HYDRA was about order. Dr. Malus is unpredictable. He was even on Insight’s hit list. He did an unauthorized study on the effects of a proposed super soldier serum using chimps back in ‘06. After the university finished cleaning the remains off the walls, they gave Dr. Malus his walking papers. That’s when he joined up with the Power Broker.”

            Clint lifts a hand, perplexed. “Wait—this loony tunes doctor made a bunch of chimps explode with some serum, and Jackson said, ‘inject me’?”

            Frowning, Fury replies, “Don’t get me wrong. The Power Broker is a very dangerous man. Always has been. When it comes to the business side of things, I never saw him make a slip. When it came to himself?”

            “Some men just have something to prove,” Steve echoes.

            Fury gives him a momentary gaze, before continuing. “Malus and Jackson have dropped off the grid, but two years ago, I started to hear murmurs about Power Broker Inc. Now, as you’ll recall, we were a little busy at the time, and didn’t exactly have the resources to investigate. In the interim, though, they’ve begun to show up more and more. They’re a subsidiary of The Corporation, and it looks like the larger group is leaning on them pretty heavily. What we don’t know is why.”

            _Here we go_ , thinks Steve. He is terrible at the spy part. Really terrible. Chuck him off a plane, run him through a wall, that he can do. But corporate espionage in the criminal underworld?

            “How many agents have already gone in?” Natasha asks, cutting to the heart of the matter.

            “Four in the last year.”

            “How long did they last?”

            “None of them were able to make an initial report.”

            Sounds like it is definitely time for Natasha, and Clint too. Steve has no idea what he could do, other than provide the muscle.

            “We have a lead on a location?” he asks.

            “We do,” says Fury, bringing up a new picture. This is obviously a surveillance photo. A beautiful, slim black woman in the midst of turning, on her phone in the middle of a busy street. “This is the current face of Power Broker Inc. Cherise Jackson, Curtiss’ cousin. MBA. Seemed to be living straight until Curtiss’ accident. Now she’s his right hand. We’ve managed to reassemble her recent movements over the past month. London, Paris, Hong Kong—the one that stands out, though, is a municipal airport in Liechtenstein.”

            Liechtenstein. Now there is a blast from the past. Steve hasn’t been there since the war.

            “Satellite photos show an installation about twenty miles from the airport. Over the past two weeks, three men currently wanted by Interpol have separately made trips to the building with their entourages, and left about an hour later. One is Naxal, one Hamas, the third is ‘Ndrangheta.”

            “So we’re thinking that these people are selling serum to terrorist organizations,” Steve sums up. “Or to the mob.”

            “Or to just about anyone with the money. My guess is the name of the organization is deliberate. Jackson doesn’t just want power for himself. He’s willing to sell it to the highest bidder.”

            Natasha, easy as anything, says, “Get me in there. I’ve got a cover in Bratva that’s still good.”

            “I know. We should have something more concrete by the weekend, and then we’ll work out the details. Barton, you’re going with, play bodyguard. Rogers, you’re backup.”

            Steve glances over. He sees the momentary flicker in Barton’s eyes. It’s Lila’s birthday party this weekend. He had managed to get the leave to go, over a week, hadn’t even told Laura yet, just in case something like this came up. Steve’s sees Clint push it down. He’s a good soldier.

            Steve finds himself saying, “Natasha and I can handle it.”

            Everyone looks at him. Steve doesn’t fold under their gazes. He’s been looked at weird for the better part of a decade—with seven or so thrown in the middle.

            “I’ll be bodyguard, Natasha’s the big fish. Should work fine.”

            Fury folds his hands together, giving Steve a hard look. They all know he’s not good at undercover. Even after all this time, he has a hard time lying.

            Clint says, covering his eagerness, “If they have it under control, sir—“

            “I’m not convinced they do.” To Steve, Fury says, “Is there a reason for this—change in plans?”

            _Clint needs to go home and see his family. And I have to do something other than sit by myself in the jet or God forbid at home in the condo, left with nothing but my thoughts._

            “Change of pace will be good for all of us,” Steve says with a smile. “Besides, I’ll be the bodyguard. No one will expect me to speak.”

            “It’s true,” Natasha says. “All he has to do is stand there and look intimidating. We’ll get him a good face. Somehow he’ll manage.”

            Fury looks to Barton, and says, “Suppose you think you’ll be in Wyoming this weekend.”

            Almost cringing, Clint replies, “I’ll be wherever you need me, sir—“

            Rolling his eye, Fury sits back. He looks at the three of them a moment, then says, “Okay. Romanoff, Rogers, you’ll have this one.”

            He doesn’t have to say, _but if you fuck this up_ , because his face almost always conveys the threat.

           

When the meeting finally finishes, Fury says curtly to Steve, “You. Hold up.”

            Steve sits back down, hands still on the arms of the chair. He hears the door click behind him, and wonders if the others knew whatever this is was coming.

            _Stevie, you are getting paranoid_.

            Fury pulls out a phone, glancing it over. “You’ve got an appointment with Dr. Ealing in forty five minutes. You’ll be there.”

            Jesus. Don’t they have more important things on their plate?

            After a moment, Fury looks up. “Problem?”

            And Steve doesn’t know what to say. There’s the impulse to say ‘yes sir’ because he’s been a soldier so long that it’s ingrained. Then there’s the rest of him, that’s fighting tooth and nail to deny that anything is wrong.

            He takes so long that Fury puts down his phone and says, “Steve.”

            Boy, it must be bad if Fury’s using his first name. In five years, he can’t really remember Fury calling him anything other than Captain or Rogers. If he did, the situation must have been so dire that’s Steve’s blocked it out.

            Steve says carefully, “I don’t see how it’s productive.”

            “You don’t have to. It’s mandatory. You’ll go.”

            “Do you go to someone like Ealing?” Steve retorts.

            “You’ll go.”

            “I’d really rather not.”

            Without skipping a beat, Fury says, “How’s Wilson doing?”

            He remembers Banner saying that his secret was that he was always angry. Steve realizes how true that can be. His anger is with him every second of the day, only it moves in and out like the tides.

            Pushing himself up, he says, “You’re a real son of a bitch, Nick.”

            As he opens the door, Fury says behind him, “Forty four minutes, Rogers.”

 

Steve sits in the too comfy chair, feeling like he’s sinking into nothingness. He’s tried every piece of furniture in the office, and this is still the best of the lot. He hates it.

            “Here we are.”

            He smiles politely as Padma passes him a cup of tea. “Thank you, ma’am.”

            She casts him an affectionate, knowing look as she goes to her desk. She’s a few years older than him, if you’re only counting the years he’s been conscious. She is the child of Indian immigrants, and she keeps her thick black hair long. Her body is large and soft and always impeccably dressed in purples and beautiful scarves and shoes that make Steve wince to look at. Her smile is quick and ever present, and she never misses an opportunity to laugh.

            Steve thinks she’s dangerous as hell.

            He has a sip of the tea—peppermint, all she has is herbal—then sets it down on the table, making sure to use a coaster. As soon as his hands are empty, Padma puts a pad of paper and pen into them. Steve feels something inside stir. Goddamn it, she doesn’t fight fair.

            Padma settles into one of the other chairs, looking completely at home and comfortable in her office. It doesn’t look like any other room in the Avengers facility. Instead of looking new, it seems well loved, prints hung up, shelves filled with books on psychology and mindfulness.

            “So,” she says with a smile, “it’s been a little while since I’ve seen you.”

            “I’m sorry about that,” Steve replies. “It’s been busy.”

            He doesn’t know if she’ll buy it. Right now, her clearance is higher than his. She knows all about his missions. He’s tried to find out more about her, but beyond her parents, that’s all he’s got.

            “How have you been?”

            “Fine,” he lies.

            “Do you remember what I asked you to do the last time you were here?”

            It’s been three weeks. He’s cancelled every appointment since. “You—might have to remind me.”

            “I gave you some homework. I asked you to draw me something.”

            He remembers, and balks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t….” He clears his throat. “I know I’m difficult, ma’am. I don’t mean to make your job harder.”

            It’s not that he means to. It’s that he can’t _help_ himself.

            “Steve, we’ve talked about this before. I’m here to help. And I get paid whether you let me do that or not. We can keep going back and forth, you fighting me, all the time. But neither of us are going to feel very good about it.”

            Steve nods. He knows he should tell her about Sharon. The whole reason he’s here is to talk to someone. Even if she reports every single thing back to Fury—and he’s not sure whether she does or not—her job is to listen, to help him try and get through.

            Sharon—that’s important. He’s lost her. She’s important to him, and he cares about her, and she’s gone, and he should talk about that.

            He can’t do it. He wasn’t raised that way. He just doesn’t have it in him.

            “What should we talk about today?” Steve asks.

            “I’d like you to do that homework we talked about. Right now, if you’re comfortable with that.” He gives her a look, and she just smiles. Of course he won’t be comfortable with it. He’s not comfortable with any of this.

            “So we’re gonna talk about that today, huh?”

            “I think we should. Would you be all right with that?”

            Steve sighs, and looks at the blank page. The instructions she’d given him—he didn’t know how much he wanted to reveal. So he hadn’t bothered.

            To hell with it. He starts to sketch in the room.

            “Brooklyn wasn’t my fault,” he says, and he knows he sounds about as hollow as a tin can.

            “Steve.”

            “It wasn’t,” he says. Even now, he can remember the shape of the window. He can remember the chunk of wood he would use to hold up the pane in the summer, when the heat was smothering and it was like an asthma attack in slow motion. “I’ve paid attention to the inquiry. The bombs were set to trigger no matter what. If MODOK didn’t push the button, they were set to go off five minutes after the deadline of me getting there. They were set to go off if he died. They were set to go off if he pushed the button. Best bomb guys SHIELD have says there’s nothing that could have been done to disarm them. He had two years to rig the city, and a brain that worked like a computer. He was smarter than me, and he got what he wanted. I couldn’t have stopped him, and it’s not my fault.”

            “So there’s nothing you wish you would have done differently.”

            He pauses, feeling a small spike of anger. He draws the spidery crack in the ceiling.

            “Steve.”

            “I don’t know what you want to hear from me.”

            “The truth would be nice.”

            “The truth is what you expect. I wish it was me who’d been there.”

            “Do you wish you’d died?”

            Steve sighs. He pushes his hair off his forehead.

            “I know, it’s a pretty hard question. But we’ve been doing this awhile.”

            “I don’t know what I wish. I know that sounds—like a cop out. But I don’t know.”

            “It’s fine to not have the answers.”

            “You ask me questions. I’m supposed to have the answers.”

            “No, I ask the questions, and I’m here to help you figure out the answers.”

            Steve draws in the lines of the floorboards. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to run. As far and fast as possible. He thinks of that kid—Pietro. That brave, reckless kid. What a gift. Gone now. Like so many others.

            Shaking his head, Steve says, “I wish I’d been smarter. I wish I could have figured out a way to stop him.”

            “Stop who?”

            A crease in his brow, Steve raises his head. “What do you mean?”

            Padma says gently, “Who do you wish you’d stopped?”

            His cheeks flush, and he quickly drops his head. He looks at the room he’s been drawing, and has the strong desire to rip the sheet off the pad, crumple it up and walk out. But he’s on a short leash. If he behaves, they let Sam live a normal life. He can see his family, he can work a decent job even if it is with SHIELD, he doesn’t have to carry the weight of the world—or at least the weight of Steve—on his shoulders. Sure, he has to wear a mask to get through his days, but that’s better than this. Steve owes him so much. Sam had his back for years. Steve can get through an appointment with a therapist, if it means keeping Sam happy.

            He’s startled when Padma gets up. She walks over to one of the bookshelves, reaching up, and pulls something off the back. Steve knows a bug when he sees one. Padma turns it off, tossing it on the table, then sits back down, bending forward.

            “Steve,” she says, “who do you wish you’d stopped?”

            He isn’t an idiot. He knows that can’t be the only listening device in the room. Steve genuinely likes Padma, even if he can’t help but think of her as the enemy. After all, she’s still SHIELD.

            Goddamn it.

            “Both of them,” he says quietly.

            “MODOK and Bucky,” Padma replies. Steve nods, clutching the pad of paper. “Steve—intellectually, even if you don’t actually believe it deep down, you know that you couldn’t have stopped MODOK. You’re an extraordinary man, with extraordinary capabilities, but you are not infallible.”

            “I should have done something more. Sam told me—he told me I should call for help, and I didn’t listen—“

            “Because you believed MODOK would kill everyone. I understand. Steve, I understand why you made that call. Just because you know that you couldn’t have stopped him now doesn’t invalidate what you believed in the moment. It was an impossible decision. There was no right answer. There just wasn’t. And I can’t promise you that you’ll ever stop blaming yourself for what happened. Especially not if you’re unwilling to work with me here, or if not me, someone else.” Padma shakes her head, sighing slightly. “But you did the best you could.”

            “My best ended up with the worst terror attack on American soil in our nation’s history. The worst terror attack in the history of the _world_.”

            “Steve—you’ve saved the world before. We all know that. That doesn’t guarantee you’ll save it every single time.”

            Unacceptable.

            “Now, you _know_ —even if you don’t think you know it, you _know_ you couldn’t have stopped MODOK from setting off those bombs. All that time—all those people who lived in the city never noticed. The inspectors, the people whose job it was to take care of the city—they never noticed. That’s how carefully he worked. What could you have done to stop it? Truly?”

            “We could have evacuated—“

            “He would have set them off, and in the process would have killed them all and the first responders who came for them. Steve. That’s not up for debate. Steve, look at me. Please.”

            He makes himself do it. Pretends like it doesn’t bother him to look into those caring brown eyes, pretend he doesn’t hate the sympathy there. He doesn’t deserve sympathy. He needs someone to scream at him, the way he’s seen people scream at him on the news, the way they’ve actually burned him in effigy.

            Padma says, “You are not responsible for every single terrible thing that happens. That’s an unbearable burden. No man can carry that—and he shouldn’t have to. There’s no reason to, and you’re setting yourself up to fail. If you don’t stop this—it’s not going to end well.”

            “You can’t tell me that I don’t take the blame for—“

            “Why do you have to take all the blame for what he did? MODOK did this. And even he—can he take all the blame for what happened?”

            Steve blinks, and says, horrified, “He killed all those people. Hundreds of…thousands of them.”

            “Yes he did. And why did he do that?”

            “To—to hurt _me_.”

            “And why did he want to hurt you? Who made him that way?” Steve shifts, uncomfortable. He doesn’t like this. He’s so used to dealing in absolutes—good guy, bad guy. Right. Wrong. MODOK was the villain. He doesn’t deserve insight or understanding. “He was tortured. He was brutalized, conditioned for one terrible purpose. But in the beginning—he was just a person. Just another person.”

            “And you feel _sorry_ for him?” Steve asks, disbelieving.

            Padma simply raises her shoulders. “Every person is deserving of empathy. We’re all people.”

            “He wasn’t a person anymore. I—I can’t. This is obscene, I just can’t—“

            She lifts a hand. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.” When Steve’s hackles begin to lower, Padma sits back in her seat, crossing her legs at the knees. “You said both. You don’t just wish you’d stopped MODOK, you wish you’d stopped Bucky too.”

            His chest feels tight. Steve knows he’s going red in the face. He looks down at the sketch, and gets a strong sense of vertigo. Startled, he holds the pad tighter. Whatever is happening to him right now, he doesn’t care for it.

            “He was willing to almost kill you to keep you away from MODOK. You crashed twice in the hospital, Steve, because of what he did. Do you honestly think there’s anything you could have done to keep him from taking your place?”

            His vision’s getting spotty. “I—I don’t….”

            “Steve—your friend died to keep you safe. He was willing to do that. I don’t think anything you could have done would have prevented that.”

            Steve sucks in a sudden breath, breaking his stillness, and he’s aware of Padma saying his name, but he can’t think right now. “Can’t,” he says, and he wonders if he’s having an asthma attack. If after all these decades, something in the serum is breaking down and his body is beginning to fail. “Can’t—“

            She’s got a hand on the back of his neck, gently pushing it downwards. Steve bends in half, putting his head on his knees. He is utterly mortified by his weakness, but he can’t seem to stop it either.

            “Steve, is it okay if I touch you? Is that okay?”

            He can’t reply. He closes his eyes.

            “Okay,” Padma says, and he hears her sit on the ground. Her small, pudgy hand latches onto his long, hard one. Everything about her is soft, and it is so comforting in the moment, even if he’s terrified and doesn’t know why.

            About ten seconds goes by, and he starts to calm. He’s so embarrassed. He hasn’t done anything like this since he was in his early twenties, and Bucky would do the same thing he had since they were kids—get Steve’s head down, sit with him, make sure he had his medicine or keep him calm until they could get to it.

            Steve sits back up, still a bit dizzy. He can’t look at Padma, can only say, “I’m so sorry—“

            “No,” she soothes, squeezing his hand once before letting go. For a moment, Steve almost grabs her hand, because he craves contact. He wants someone to tell him these things, to touch him and tell him it’s not his fault, to make him believe it. He doesn’t, though. Of course he doesn’t. Padma gives him a small smile. “Well—I guess we went a bit too far today.”

            “I’m sorry,” Steve says again, bright red.

            She shakes her head. “No. You don’t ever have to apologize if something like that happens.” God, Steve can’t imagine whatever that was happening again. Padma looks around, and instead of going back to her chair, she simply drops on her rear end. She pulls off her high heels, casually tossing them aside. “You have no idea how obnoxious those things are.”

            He’s filled with a sudden wave of affection for her. He wishes, badly, that they could be friends. Only she’s doing her job, and he can’t even help her do it well.

            Padma smiles up at him. “How would you feel about showing me what you’ve got so far?”

            Steve hesitates, then passes her the pad.

            She looks it over, then asks him, “This is what you think of, when you think of Brooklyn?”

            “My old bedroom,” Steve explains.

            “Looks awfully empty.”

            _That’s because he’s not in it_.

            Steve just says, “It was a different time.” He rubs his hand over his face, and he’s not able to say much for the rest of the appointment.

 

Padma’s office is located near one of the back entrances. It’s placed very specifically so that no one will see people coming and going from it. Especially not SHIELD’s shadow soldiers, the ones no one wants to admit exist.

            Occasionally, though, Steve will be trying to leave the compound, and he’ll see someone coming up from the garage.

            That’s how, for the first time in well over a year, Steve sees James Rhodes.

            He pauses as he sees the man walking down the hallway, coming from the garage. The metal gear attached to his lower limbs makes a light _swoosh_ every time he moves. He walks straight and tall, like the military man he is.

            The last time Steve saw him was on the battlefield, and they were on opposing sides. He knew Rhodes had flown after he and Bucky as they tried to escape. He knew Rhodes was the only one out of everyone who fought that day to sustain a serious injury.

            Not just an injury—he had been paralyzed below the waist.

            Steve keeps walking, not knowing what to do or say. The fact that he can walk is a _miracle_. It’s Tony, of course it is. They’ve had their differences, but Steve can never fault Tony for not caring deeply. Rhodes falls from the sky, and Tony makes him new legs.

            Sam gets arrested for treason, all Steve can do is play the martyr, like he has his whole life.

            Rhodes shows no sign of even noticing him, but they’re approaching each other fast, and Steve does the only thing he can think of. “Colonel,” he says politely.

            Without so much as a look, Rhodes replies as he passes, “Rogers.”

            Steve slows, looking back over his shoulder. The snub is an obvious one. Steve landed himself a dishonourable discharge after seventy years. He’s not a captain, and as far as Rhodes is concerned, they’re not on the same team.

            Steve puts his head down, and keeps walking.

 

The sun’s gone down by the time he gets to the condo. Steve turns on the lights, and carefully lines up his boots.

            Then he stops.

            _What am I gonna do?_

He stands, looking around. This place is filled with things, but it’s not a home. It’s just him here. At least with Sharon—it was easier….

            He shrugs out of his coat, and hangs it up. He feels hollow. Like if someone shouted inside him, all they’d get back was an echo.

            The session with Padma has really shaken him. She said he had a panic attack, but Steve’s not willing to accept that. He’s supposed to be better. He’s supposed to be strong. The nightmares are one thing—he can’t control what happens when he’s asleep—but when he’s awake, he’s supposed to be the man who keeps it together.

            _Yeah? How’d that work out for Brooklyn?_

He walks down the hall, going to the bedroom. He doesn’t bother with the lights in there. Instead, he goes right to the closet, opening it up. Reaching up, he finds the shoebox that he keeps behind the guns. Steve takes it, then goes to sit on the bed.

            Leaning against the headboard, he tries to tell himself not to look. Then he reasons that he’s been doing better. It used to be that he’d look at it every day. He weaned himself to once a week, then to occasions where he really hates himself.

            Today counts.

            Lifting the lid, Steve sets it aside. Careful, he slips his hand in, and picks up the mask.

            It had come from about the last place one would expect. He’d woken up in the hospital. Everything hurt, and he felt like he’d been drained dry. Staring at the ceiling, he tried to remember what happened, dazed.

            Then it all came hurtling back. The dock. He’d been ready, he had been more than ready, he had actually _wanted_ it to end. Then that sharp pain. Even now, he could feel how the knife had twisted inside him. He had dropped to the ground, the words still echoing in his ear— _end of the line_.

            Steve jerked upwards, and immediately found that he was restrained. This was no ordinary hospital bed. It felt a little more like an open coffin. His wrists were restrained by pieces of metal that looked about as thick as his thighs.

            He looked for someone, expecting guards and guns. Instead, he found Tony, sitting off to the side, something in his hands.

            Steve stared at him, and he had so many questions. What happened? The war? Had the world exploded? Brooklyn? Had MODOK been stopped?

            Above all, he had to know—he had to know if—

            Before he could speak, Tony got up. He walked over to Steve’s bed, face inscrutable. After a moment, he set down the thing in his hands on the side of the chamber.

            It was a black face mask. It had been burned and warped by fire, the lenses near melted away. Steve saw it, and knew that he had lost everything.

            Tony stood there a moment, then tapped two fingers next to the mask. “Sorry, Cap,” he murmured, and walked away.

            Steve couldn’t help himself. He’d tried to keep it in. He thought that if he let it out, it would never stop. But he started screaming, and he ripped the chamber apart with his bare hands, and he wouldn’t stop howling until they actually used tranquilizer darts on him.

            Now he sits alone in his room, with Bucky’s destroyed mask. He had been so horrified when Bucky had pulled it out in Vancouver. Thought it was a setback. He didn’t like to think about the Winter Soldier. It was easier to think that it hadn’t really been Bucky, that he hadn’t been in control of himself for all those decades. And seeing him with it on when he killed those two cops—

            Only now it’s all he has left. He wants to ask for more—if maybe the Smithsonian has something, anything, they’d be willing to give him. All the Captain America stuff is in storage now. It wouldn’t hurt, if they gave him something.

            But Steve doesn’t have a lot to bargain with these days. Besides—this is all he has of Bucky at the end. When he willingly walked into fire for Steve.

            Steve turns it over, touching the inside of the mask, and the day hits him so hard that he thinks very, very briefly about the weapons in the closet.

            _Don’t even kid about that, Stevie. You already tried to punch your ticket once this year, and look how well that turned out._

            He’s alone. He is trapped. All he has to comfort him now are ghosts.

            His hands are shaking.

            _Okay. Enough_.

            Enough what?

            _Enough_.

            Steve puts the mask down, and pulls out his phone. He has to talk to someone. The question is who.

            It’s been weeks since he called Sam. When they do talk, Steve doesn’t tell him much about his life. Keeps it light. Sam doesn’t know the extent of his deal—if he did, he wouldn’t have agreed to it. Steve doesn’t want to burden him. He put up with Steve for so long, and gave up so much for him. Is it fair to call on him now that things are slowly going to hell? Sam took on so much for him, and Steve’s only starting to balance the books on that account, and he hates every second. What kind of friend does that make him?

            But if not Sam, who? Who in the hell could possibly understand what he’s going through?

            _You know who_.

            Steve scratches the back of his neck, swallowing. He wishes this didn’t make him feel so weak. He’s spent a lifetime wishing he was anything but that. He’s tried so hard to be strong.

            Frustrated, unable to take it a second longer, he sends a single word text. ‘Busy?’

            The forty seven seconds it takes to get a reply are a thousand year agony. ‘Yes.’

            He could just leave it. He should. No one wants to hear his problems.

            _I can’t keep living like this_.

            He types, ‘Sharon broke up with me,’ and sends it off.

            This time, the answer comes twenty seconds later. ‘I’ll be ready in two minutes.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm a sucker for comments. More than that, I'm just grateful that you've taken the time to read. I'll see you beautiful people tomorrow.


	4. The Broken

Steve sits in the corner of the bar, at a little round table that’s underneath a glowing sign for Budweiser. He’s got his hands in his lap, twisting them together. It’s an old nervous twitch. He’d hide his hands under the table, not letting anyone see how anxious he was. Sitting outside of doctors’ offices while his mother pleaded inside, or being in the principal’s office for fighting again. Waiting before having to go onstage to sell bonds. Watching Peggy walk into a room. Listening as Ross threw every failure in their faces. Never letting anyone see.

            The place is pretty busy for a Tuesday night. It’s the only bar for thirty miles, halfway between their town and the next, attached to a truck stop and a cheap hotel. It’s a nice enough bar. The place is kept clean, and no one’s belligerent. At least not yet. It’s only eight, after all.

            He smiles out of habit as Natasha returns. She’s got a pint for him in one hand, and a full bottle of vodka in the other, two shot glasses pinched between her index and middle finger. Some guy she passes says something, but Natasha doesn’t even deign to slow her step. Her face isn’t hers right now, just like his face isn’t his own. It’s still a beautiful face, though.

            Setting down the bottle and the glasses, Natasha sits as Steve says again, “I could have gotten—“

            “You can get the next one,” she replies. She stretches, the same way she will before they’re about to go into battle, then leans back, rolling her shoulders. Uncapping the bottle, she fills both glasses to the rim, then pushes one across the small table to him. “Maybe you can’t get drunk, but we’ll make the effort.”         

            She lifts her glass, and with a genuine smile, Steve clinks his glass to hers.

            “Za zdaróvye,” Natasha says before bolting it.

            “Sláinte,” Steve returns, taking the drink in one gulp. He raises his brows. “It’s going to take a lot of these.”

            Natasha shrugs, already refilling her glass. “I was kidding. You’re the designated driver.”

            “Of course I am,” he says, somewhat wistful.

            She has another shot, looking like she’s fortifying herself, then asks, “So? Get right to it?”

            “Suppose so,” Steve says, watching her fill her glass with a bit of concern.

            “What went wrong?”

            Steve lets out a soft chuckle. He picks up his beer, looking into it. After a moment’s consideration, he murmurs, “I’m broken.”

            He has a sip. He might not get drunk on beer, but he appreciates the taste of it. A little sour. Back before the serum, he couldn’t stand the stuff. Now there’s all kinds of things he can stand.

            He realizes Natasha hasn’t said anything. Lifting his eyes, he finds her gazing at him. “Did she _say_ that to you?” Natasha asks, and Steve figures it out.

            “No,” he says quickly. “God no—“

            Natasha lets out a breath, shaking her head. “Steve, you have to be a little more careful with me right now. I haven’t done anything like this before, and Sharon Carter was about a phone call away from getting her nose broke by a guy who owes me a favour.”

            “It’s not her fault,” Steve insists.

            “You said _she_ broke up with _you_. It’s clearly her fault.”

            Miserable, Steve says, “No. C’mon. We both know that’s not true.”

            Frowning, Natasha considers him a moment. “Let me guess. You’re uncommunicative and she felt like she couldn’t get close to you.”

            Jesus, is it that _obvious_? “So you’ve got my place bugged.”

            “Oh, for God’s sake, Steve—that’s her issue? She’s a grown woman. She knew what she was getting into, and that’s her major complaint? I thought more of her.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “She’s always been slippery, though. I didn’t even pick up on her being SHIELD until her cover was blown. I should have seen this coming.”

            “You said you liked her.”

            “I did. I don’t anymore. She broke up with you.”

            After a moment, Steve drops his head, beaming, knowing it might not be the time.

            “What?”

            “I was just thinking that I’m glad I called you.”

            “I’ll admit, I was surprised you did.” Natasha loosely crosses her arms. “I would have thought you’d call Sam.”

            Steve grimaces, uncomfortable.

            “Is it that you think you’re bothering him, or you don’t want to talk to him about your love life?”

            “A little from column A, a little from column B.”

            “Well, I’m—honoured that you thought of me.” She shakes her head at herself. “Yeah, that sounded completely natural. Anyways—fuck her. She doesn’t see that you’re—you know, _you_ , then she’s not worth it.”

            “Of course she’s worth it.”

            “Steve. She hurt you.”

            Stubborn, Steve argues, “She’s brilliant, and a patriot, and gorgeous, and she was so patient with me, and I messed it up. Just by being—whatever the hell I am.”

            “Steve.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Do you love her?”

            He wants to say he does. He wants to say he’s ready to move mountain and earth to get her back, to prove that he can be normal in at least this if nothing else, because this was just about the only normal thing about him. Only Steve doesn’t have the energy to lie.

            He looks at Natasha, wishing he could tell her all that.

            Only it looks like she already knows. “Yeah,” she says, sympathetic. “There you go. Wasn’t meant to be.” Natasha picks up her glass, crossing her legs at the ankles. “But fuck her.”

            “You just said it wasn’t meant to be.”

            “Yeah, but she’s not my friend. You are. She ceases to exist in my good books.” Disgusted, Natasha mutters, “Uncommunicative.”

            Under her breath, she calls Sharon something in Russian that makes Steve choke on his beer.

 

They talk around things for a while, a bit about work, while Natasha has more drinks than Steve expected. He’s not keeping up with her, and she’s got a regular physiology. Well—he assumes she does. He’s not sure what happened to her before SHIELD. He’s never asked. She’s never offered.

            The more drinks she has, the brighter her eyes are, the easier her smile. And Steve starts to think that she’s drinking to try and be normal in this. To be the kind of person who can go out with someone after they’re dumped and cheer them up.

            In that moment, he loves her. He’d kill for her. If anyone ever hurt her—not that she couldn’t take care of herself—he thinks he would tear them limb from limb. She’s his friend, and he loves her for it.

            Steve pushes his hair back with a hand, and says hesitantly, “I…don’t know what I was supposed to do differently.”

            Natasha shrugs with one shoulder. She’s wearing a green sweater that makes her hair look even more red, and tight jeans that keep causing the guys in the booth ten feet away to eye her. When Steve’s with her, he can’t help but notice how often men view her as an object. It makes him furious. Even Bucky, the smoothest man he ever saw with a woman, would have never just eyeballed a woman so obvious, so rude. Natasha’s either oblivious to the gazes, or she just doesn’t care. Steve thinks it’s probably a combination.

            “Did you do the best you could?”

            “Obviously not, because I’m single again.”

            “I saw you two together. You did the best you could.”

            “Yeah, but….” He blushes, feeling like an idiot. “What if my best isn’t any good?”

            “Oh, Steve, come on. You’re everything a partner wants. Attentive, you listen well—you’re organized—“

            He chuckles. “That’s what a woman’s looking for?”

            “If she’s smart, she is. You look—“ Natasha gestures to him from top to bottom. “Like that. So what if you have a hard time talking about yourself? The things we do, what, we’re supposed to cry about it all the time? We open that box and we’d choke on our own tears. And—Steve, of all of us, you’ve had a year, my friend. You have had one hell of a year. Maybe this just wasn’t the time to start something with anyone. It could be that you weren’t ready. Or it could just be that she’s a terrible person and I have to swear to hate her forever.”

            “Don’t hate her,” Steve pleads. “Don’t. I don’t hate her.”

            Natasha lets out a groan. “Don’t be Mr. Nice about this. She broke up with you. It’s okay to be angry. That is a legitimate response to this situation.”

            “Only person I’m angry at is myself.”

            “ _Steve_.”

            “She was perfect. She was perfect for me.”

            “Says who?”

            Swallowing, Steve reasons, “Maybe it _is_ just the timing. Maybe I’m just—not having an easy time because of—because of January, and I wasn’t ready to do this. You know? Maybe that’s all it is. Give it a year, and—“

            “Steve, no.”

            “I don’t know, maybe if she’ll give me a chance—“

            Natasha cuts in, her voice harsher than he expects. “Steve. Don’t do that to yourself.” She gives her head a quick shake. “People don’t leave because they want you. They leave because they don’t.”

            He gazes at her, taken aback. He realizes she’s not talking about him.

            Natasha blinks a few times, then sits back. A sardonic smile curls at her mouth, and she shakes her curls back. She laughs softly.

            Steve asks, “Have you tried looking for him?”

            He almost thinks that she’ll reply, _who_ , but she doesn’t insult his intelligence. She looks him dead on and replies, “No. I haven’t. There’s a reason he left.”

            “Nat—“

            “Hey,” she says, “this is your pity party, not mine.” Natasha lifts her hair off her neck. “Steve, do you think you could get the next round? Get me some water maybe?”

            “Of course,” he says, immediately getting to his feet. Steve can’t help himself. A woman asks him to do something, manners kick in.

            He goes to the bar, ordering himself another beer, and some water for Natasha. He looks back at her, sitting alone against the wall. Sees the way men look at her. Part of him hates them for it, and part is amused. It’s like seeing a bunch of moths enamoured by a flame.

 

It takes another half hour. Steve’s spoken a little about how it’s hard to just _adapt_ to what people expect. Especially with Sharon. When he was growing up, you didn’t talk about your feelings. Not with your friends, and you sure as hell didn’t tell your girl if you were worried that you were slowly losing your mind.

            “I get it,” Natasha says. “Trust me, do you think the KGB or the GRU wanted to know if I was having a hard time because of a mission?”

            “They have me going in to see this doctor every week. Today—it’s like my lungs were collapsing. Like I was a kid again.”

            Having a sip of her water, Natasha asks, “Panic attack?”

            Pausing, Steve says, “Have—you ever had one?”

            “No.”

            He nods, cheeks flushing. “Right.”

            “Steve.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yes, I’ve had a panic attack.”

            He tilts his head. “You just saying that to make me feel better?”

            Natasha rolls her eyes. “I know you like to pretend that the weight of the world is on your shoulders and your shoulders alone, but you’re not the only one who’s been in that seat. You know, Tony had panic attacks all the time after our first rumble in New York.”

            Steve raises his brows, not knowing if she should be telling him this. “Seriously?”

            “Yeah. I’ve seen footage.”

            He gives her a hard look. “Nat.”

            “I’m a spy. It’s what I do. And yeah, I’ve—“ She stops, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “God. It’s even hard to talk to you about it, and I know that you know what it’s like. It is so hard to…admit…that we might not….” Natasha reaches up, touching her brow. She closes her eyes momentarily, then says, “Yes.”

            “Sorry?”

            Dropping her hand, Natasha reaches out for the bottle, pouring herself another shot. “Answer is yes,” she says without meeting his eyes. “I’ve looked for him.”

            Steve doesn’t know what to say. So he keeps his mouth shut.

            Natasha tilts the vodka back into her mouth, then pushes the glass away. “I’ve looked and looked. I waited two months, because I thought—I thought that I was respecting his wishes. But then I—I had to know where he was. So I thought that I would just—find him. Make sure he’s okay.” She snorts. “Of course he’s okay. He spit out a bullet he fired in his own mouth. But the…other kind of okay. And I can’t find him, Steve. He’s in the wind. It’s been two years, and he is just…gone.” She shrugs, finally meeting his gaze. “He’s gone because he wants to be gone.”

            Steve folds his arms on the table. Out of curiosity, he asks, “What was it about him?”

            Letting her head fall back, Natasha groans, “Steve, don’t make this about—“

            “Come on. My first break up. Be miserable with me.” He promises, “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”

            She takes a deep breath, looking at him askance. For a moment, she fiddles a nail into a notch on the table. At last, like she’s admitting nuclear codes to an enemy, Natasha says, “He’s gentle.” She arches her back, like this is making her uncomfortable from top to bottom. Then she smiles crookedly. “He’s the first guy I ever met that I never worried about killing.”

            Steve lets out a hard snort, covering his mouth with the back of his hand for a second.

            Relaxing a little, Natasha continues. “His sense of humor—I knew he was intelligent, I knew about his research, I’d read his files, but the files don’t tell you about the way a person is funny. I’m deadpan, you’re self-effacing, Tony’s manic, Clint’s sarcastic, but he—he’s so self-deprecating and honest. I think he might be the most honest man I’ve ever met.” She smiles faintly, and Steve can see a memory in her eyes. “I ever tell you about when Fury sent me to pick him up?”

            “No.”

            “I got him to the edge of town, and told him we were alone. I had a team of about two dozen surrounding the place.”

            “So you were understaffed that day.”

            “Yeah, well—I thought I was so sly, Rogers. Thought he had no idea. I’m making my pitch, and—all of a sudden, _bam_. He slams his hands down on the table and yells, ‘Stop lying’ and a second later I’ve got my gun on him and these two dozen agents are closing in. Then he puts his hands up, and apologizes for being mean. He just wanted to see what I’d do. He had my number from the moment he laid eyes on me. He knew I was a liar.”

            Steve says, “If that had been me in your place, I might have wet my pants.”

            “I don’t get scared much, Steve, but with him—the threat was very real. And that’s not exactly a healthy ingredient for romance, is it.”

            “No one’s ever accused us of being healthy.”

            “Nope,” Natasha says. “I was scared of him until New York. But after—I think that’s when I stopped being scared of the monster. He was so different from the people we deal with, and I just….” She closes a fist, and breathes. “I _just_.”

            She looks at him to see if he understands, and he nods.

            Natasha looks away from him, at the other people in the bar. “Steve,” she says, “I missed my shot.”

            “No,” he tries to reassure her, not liking how remorse looks on her.

            Natasha shakes her head, stopping him. “No, Steve, I—I had the opportunity. And I didn’t take it.” She threads her fingers through her curls, looking pained. “After he was set off in South Africa, and I saw—well, we all saw things—but we were at Clint’s, and I asked him—I asked him to go with me.” She scowls. “Steve, no one knows this, if you—“

            “Come on,” Steve says. “I wouldn’t.”

            Natasha swallows, and says, “I was ready to go. I was ready, and I asked him to go with me. I told him things—that I’ll never tell anyone else. But I told him, because he—he thinks he’s a monster. He’s not. He’s just got one on his back. And I worry that maybe…every part of me—you’re not the only one who worries about being broken. I thought, the two of us, maybe we can go be broken together. Far away from all this. Only he wasn’t ready. He was scared of hurting me. I didn’t know if I’d ever talk him out of it. Then he came for me in Sokovia, and he said, let’s go. He said, let’s leave.” She bites her lip, thinking back. “You know what I did?”

            Steve shakes his head.

            “I kissed him, then I pushed him off a fucking ledge to get the monster to come out. Because we had a job to do.”

            It’s like a punch in the face. Or a knife in the back. He knows there’s no mark—but he feels where there should be a scar.

            “And sure, we saved the world. Killed thousands of people to do it, but yeah, we saved the world. Only I lost him. He asked me to leave with him, and I chose the job. That’s broken, Steve. I preyed on his weakness. Of course he left. Of course he doesn’t want me to find him.” She frowns, and repeats, “I missed my shot.”

            Steve studies her, and asks, “If you had it to do over….”

            Natasha thinks about it, really thinks about it, for nearly ten seconds. “I don’t know,” she finally answers. “If I hadn’t done it—he’s the one who took down the primary Ultron. If he hadn’t done that, maybe we would have lost the world. Or maybe the rest of you would have been fine. If I had it to do over, on the one hand, I know we’d save the planet, but I lose him, and on the other, maybe we all die, but I would have had the chance. Maybe…maybe we could have been happy.” Natasha suddenly tosses up her hands. “ _Why_ are we talking about this? We’re here to talk about you. Why are we talking about me?”

            “Because you love Banner,” Steve answers, and that shuts her up. “And I don’t think I’ll ever love Sharon. No matter how much I wish I could.”

            Natasha furrows her brows. She picks up the bottle, holding it over his glass. He nods, and she pours him a shot.

            “Sharon…said we look good on paper. It would be really easy to try and argue that, but…but it’s true, isn’t it.”

            “I don’t know. Is it?” Natasha’s obviously relieved to get away from talking about herself.

            It’s a little easier for him to talk now. If Natasha of all people could open up, Steve doesn’t exactly have an excuse. “When I thought she was a nurse, when she was my neighbour, I’d see her, and I’d think—that’s the kind of woman I should be with. Obviously cares about people—gorgeous, funny. That’s the kind of person I should be with. I tried to ask her out…because it felt like a thing I should do. Not because of….”

            He looks to her, embarrassed, and Natasha offers, “Intense sexual attraction?”

            Steve rolls his eyes, but it’s not like Natasha’s in the wrong ball park. “And later…I just kept telling myself, this is the kind of woman you’re supposed to be with.”

            “Well—who’s the kind of woman you _want_ to be with?”

            That is a really, _really_ difficult question, and probably not for the reasons Natasha imagines. Being honest, though, Steve says, “I loved Peg so much. I was….” He juts his jaw out, and he wonders why it’s easier to talk to Natasha about this than Sam or Sharon or even a paid professional. “When I came out of the ice, there were a couple of things that seemed…unbearable. Knowing I missed out on a life with her, that was pretty rough. But seeing that she’d lived that life with someone else—had all the things I wanted with her, with another guy, I uh—didn’t feel real great about that.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Some things—all that we do, we’re supposed to just live with them, all these things that go wrong. These things that aren’t right, or natural, or whatever you want to call them. There’s just some things that….” Steve admits, “Nat, I think I’m cracking up.”

            “Hey.” She leans forward a little. “If you didn’t, then I’d really think you were crazy.”

            “The past ten years of my life—seventy five, whatever you want to call it—it’s just one thing after another and there’s never enough time to—to breathe. And now…now Brooklyn, and I can’t….”

            “Steve.” She fixes her green eyes on him. “I know I’m a liar, but I’m not lying about this. Brooklyn wasn’t your fault.” He’s going to argue, but she snaps her fingers right in front of his face, startling him. Natasha repeats, “Brooklyn was not your fault.”

            For the briefest of moments, he wonders if she’s right.

            “All those people—“

            “Yeah. It’s shitty. It’s horrible, and if I was in your shoes, I don’t know what I’d do. Probably set off a hydrogen bomb somewhere. But my friend—“ She shakes her head at him. “My friend. Not your fault.”

            Steve has to look down at his lap for a few seconds.

            He wants to ask. No, not wants to. He needs to.

            “Do you know where he is?” he murmurs.

            He lifts his eyes. Natasha’s gazing at him, unreadable. “You think he’s alive,” she says.

            Steve lets out a hiss. “Don’t play games with me. Of course he’s alive.” He hunches his shoulders, wishing he was smaller. “You’ve seen the pictures of the mask?”

            “Yeah,” Natasha says quietly.

            “So we both know he’s alive.”

            After a moment, she nods. “Yeah.”

            The mask was left at the sight of the old apartment, where he was supposed to meet MODOK. It was under some rubble, but there was no blood on it, no tissue. It’s like someone took it off and left it behind. In fact, Steve is certain of it.

            “Do you know where he is?” he repeats, and Steve can hear the undercurrent of begging in his voice.

            “I don’t. I’m sorry.” He sees something in her face, and waits. Natasha takes a deep breath, and continues, “I thought—back in February—that the Prime Minister of Burkino Faso looked like his handiwork, but that’s speculation.”

            “Assassinated?”

            “Yeah.”

            Steve knows he should be horrified. Bucky’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. He’s not supposed to be going around shooting people in the head. Of course, that didn’t stop him in Canada, but Steve wanted to believe he was getting better.

            And then there’s the reality, which is that he doesn’t goddamn care. Any news of Bucky is enough.

            “Nothing after that?”

            “No. He’s keeping a very low profile. And I’ve looked, because I wondered if you might ask.”

            He wonders if she knows. If she can look at him and see it. He’s an open book, always has been. Can she tell?

            Natasha cocks her head. “Steve?”

            “I have to find him.”

            “He doesn’t want to be found—“

            “It doesn’t _matter_.”

            She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

            Can she tell? Can they all tell? He’s spent so long trying to hide it. He has to hide it. He’s always had to hide it. This is the one thing. There are so many things he can’t have, but this is the big one. Steve feels like everyone knows, just by looking at him.

            They’re not supposed to know.

            “Steve?”

            Before he can stop himself, Steve says in a rush, “If it’s not him, I don’t think I can with anyone else.”

            He clamps his hand over his mouth.

            Oh God. Oh _fuck_. What did he just do? What did he just _do_?

            He bends over. He’s getting dizzy, and he should breathe, but he’s cutting off his own air supply. His hand is squeezing his nostrils shut, covering his mouth.

            He’s falling. Not really, but that’s what it feels like. It feels like one of his nightmares, and he’s falling.

            There’s a hand on his wrist, twisting, hurting him. “Steve,” he hears faintly, “Steve, stop that. Steve, you have to _breathe_ —“

            It hurts so much that he lets go of himself. He gasps, “I’m going to be sick.”

 

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting outside on the curb, and Steve’s head is between his knees. He didn’t throw up, but he came perilously close.

            Natasha asked if he wanted to be touched, and he said he didn’t know, because right now he doesn’t know what the hell he wants. Instead, she’s just sitting next to him on the snowy sidewalk, arms hooked over her knees.

            When the worst of the nausea has finally passed, Steve sits back up. He looks at the parking lot, lit up by fluorescent lights under the dark sky, and says, “I didn’t think this day could possibly get worse.”

            “Oh, right, forgot to tell you. Incoming asteroid. We’re all doomed.”

            “That might be preferable,” Steve says grimly.

            She elbows him in the side. “Stop being dramatic. It’s not like—“ Steve casts her a gaze, and she falls silent.

            He looks down at his boots. “Does everyone know? I…I feel like…when they look at me, they all know.”

            “Do people know you love Bucky? Yeah, they know that. But they think it’s just some intensely homosocial throwback to a different time.” Natasha shrugs. “So what if they do know?”

            “I don’t…I don’t think I can….”

            “Steve. It’s 2017.”

            “And I spent the first two thirds of my life where something like this could get me arrested. Ruin me. Not to mention damn me for eternity.”

            “Don’t get me started on the Catholic Church, Rogers—“

            “No, I’m—very much fallen from the faith. But you can’t say it doesn’t matter. Everything I was taught—it just doesn’t go away.”

            “Tell me—a hundred years ago, would you have been friends with Sam?”

            Steve pauses, then admits, “No. It’s just not how things were—“

            “Yeah, because things were idiotic. Would you have been friends with me?”

            “That would not have been appropriate.”

            “At least you can recognize that some of these cultural norms you were instilled with can be worked past. You remember how you used to call me ma’am all the time?”

            Steve laughs a little, and Natasha bumps into his arm.

            Natasha asks, “So do you like girls?”

            “ _Yes_ ,” Steve says, exasperated. “I like girls, I _loved_ Peg—“

            “But.”

            Steve takes a few seconds before saying, “But.”

            Natasha looks over at him, and he can tell there’s absolutely no judgment there. Is that why he called her? Because he knew she would be like this? “How long?”

            Steve exhales through his nose, and replies, “How long have I known him.”

            “It’s like that, huh.”

            “It’s always been like that,” Steve admits, and he is so tired. This is a secret he’s kept for nearly ninety years.

            “Tell me,” she says.

            So he tells her.


	5. Confession

He tells her about the first time he noticed Bucky Barnes. Not just saw, but noticed him.

            He was six years old, the first month of first grade. He and his ma had been in the new place for less than three months after being evicted from the last after his medical bills drained them dry. At school, none of the kids would come near him. They all knew he was sick. They said things about his mother. He didn’t want to be near them anyway.

            He was sitting outside at lunch, with a book in his hands, when he heard someone crying. He looked up and saw a boy a few years older than him shoving a girl who was about the same size as Steve. She had a cleft palate, and never said anything in class, and now she was crying.

            The boy was calling her a hare lip, and she was weeping, and Steve saw red. He couldn’t stand it when guys picked on girls. You didn’t do that, that wasn’t _right_ —

            Even though the other boy had inches on him and probably twenty five pounds, Steve put his book down and started to get up.

            Before he could, his attention was drawn by another kid walking straight towards the bully. Steve couldn’t tell who it was, but the kid walked with complete clarity of purpose, from point A to point B, without ever slowing his step.

            “Hey,” the kid said, and when the bully turned, the kid punched him so hard in the nose that Steve could hear it break from forty feet away.

            His jaw dropped.

            The bully fell backwards, blood spurting from his face, and the kid turned to check on the girl, now all easy smiles. Steve knew him—well, knew his name. He was Bucky Barnes. He was in the year above Steve, tall for his age and always had his hair neatly combed, parted on the side. His family lived two blocks away from the Rogers’ home, and they went to the same church.

            When a teacher suddenly appeared, dragging Bucky away by the arm, Bucky simply rolled his eyes and said, “Aw, that was nothing.”

            As they passed him, Steve wanted nothing more than to be that boy.

 

He tells her about the first time Bucky Barnes noticed him.

            He tells her about the alley, the three kids who had no idea they were setting into motion a story that would live on into the next century. He tells her about how Bucky saved him.

            He doesn’t tell her how he cried, and how it was the last time he cried until 1944.

            He tells her about his ma making him go apologize for the way he acted. She hated how he got into fights. Every time, it was the same thing—“I came to this country to get away from this! You father died fighting. Your uncle died in the Uprising. I didn’t come here so my son could fight.”

            She hated that Steve fought, but she appreciated how Bucky could scare the other boys off with a few words. She made Steve walk the two blocks to go and say sorry. Steve loathed every step there. He’d been weak. Bucky was so great—Steve noticed him more and more, after seeing how he’d stood up to that bully—and Steve hated that Bucky had needed to save him. As much as Steve protested, he’d needed to be saved. He couldn’t stomach that.

            He’d wanted to hate Bucky too, but Bucky was so nonchalant about the whole thing, so reasonable. Then he walked Steve home, keeping him talking the whole way. Steve was tongue tied and bright red for most of it. He didn’t talk to other kids, because no one wanted to talk to him. Bucky talked to him like he was just another one of the guys.

            Steve thought it was a one time thing—of course it was, why would Bucky Barnes want to be friends with a wet sock like Steve Rogers? Only the next day at school, Bucky sat next to him at lunch and before Steve could protest, told him to shut up, and that had been it.

            After that, they couldn’t be separated.

 

He tells her about becoming an altar boy when he was ten.

            He hadn’t thought that he’d be able to—the incense they used in the church sometimes made his lungs close up—but Father Gregory spoke to his ma, and Steve was so eager. He wanted to serve, _badly_ , and maybe his temper was bad and he got in fights, but it was only ever standing up for something or against someone. If he was an altar boy, maybe he could channel that need in a way that wouldn’t embarrass his ma, and would start him down a path he’d been thinking of.

            Sometimes Steve thought about becoming a priest. If he lived long enough to take the orders, that was. He loved church. He loved the ritual, he loved the art. He loved sitting there, lulled by the rhythm of Latin and feeling close to God. He said his prayers every night, of course he did, but something about being in the house of the Lord made it seem somehow more.

            Steve knew that he wanted to help people. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He always remembered the line ‘the meek shall inherit the earth’ and took it to heart. Steve couldn’t stand to see bad people hurting the good. If he joined the church, if he took orders, that could be his whole life.

            It wasn’t like he’d be good for much else. Not like Bucky, who could do anything, but who was already talking about being a welder like his old man.

            His mother had her reservations, but Father Gregory said that he’d be fine. Steve adored Father Gregory. He wasn’t a million years old, like Father Joseph had been. He talked to Steve like a person, not a child. They talked about verses, and Father Gregory always complimented him on how much he could remember. Steve had a great memory. He even gave Father Gregory some of his drawings that he did, based on scriptures they’d talked about. Father Gregory put them up in his office, and Steve was so pleased he never thought he’d stop grinning.

            So when a kid moved away and there was a spot open, Steve pleaded for it to be him. He wanted to be useful. For once in his life, he could do some good.

            Bucky thought he was being ridiculous. “You want to be useful, keep your grades up. Stay in school, and go to college. Don’t be a _monk_.” He kept telling Steve to give it up, that it was a waste of time, that he should do something, anything else. Steve brushed off his lack of enthusiasm. Bucky might not get it, but Steve was determined, and he didn’t change his mind for much.

            The first Mass he served at, Steve was so happy he thought he’d burst. He did everything perfect. The incense didn’t bother him, like he thought it would. He stayed very still, kept his hands clasped, didn’t drop anything—it was the first time in his life that he did things _exactly_ as he was supposed to.

            Only at the end did he look for reassurance. Father Gregory gave him a big smile, and Steve went weak in the knees. In that moment, he knew his father would have been proud of him. Maybe Steve would never be able to fight, but he could serve in other ways. He could do this.

            He looked for his mother, and was a little worried to see that she was dabbing away tears. Next to her was the Barnes family. Steve found Bucky, hoping his friend had seen how perfectly he did everything.

            Except Bucky wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at Father Gregory with a hollowness to his eyes that Steve had never seen before.

            Father Gregory asked him to come by the church the next day. So they could practice some more. Steve felt stricken—he thought he’d done so well—but Father Gregory promised him that to stay perfect, he’d need to practice. He asked Steve if he could bring any more drawings. Steve stayed up late that night, working on a sketch of how he thought Isaac must have looked.

            After school, Bucky started to walk in the direction of home, and Steve said, “I gotta go to church. Father Gregory wants to see me.”

            And he hadn’t understood why Bucky asked, “You and who else?”

            Steve shrugged. “Nobody.”

            Bucky just said, “I’ll walk you.”

            Bucky didn’t say much. Steve filled the spaces talking about the Mass, and knowing he probably sounded like a dope, but he knew Bucky wouldn’t make him feel bad about it. Bucky teased him plenty, sure, but no one had his back like Bucky did. Any time Steve ever questioned that, he’d look at the scars on the back of Bucky’s right hand knuckles, from where they’d cut open on Peter Grady’s teeth after Peter slapped the books from Steve’s hands.

            But when they got to the church, Bucky said, “Wait here.”

            Perplexed, Steve replied, “What—“

            Bucky turned around, towering over Steve. He was about six inches taller than Steve by then, showing no signs of stopping. He pointed to the ground and said, “You stay right here, Stevie. You don’t move a step until I say so. You understand me?”

            Steve was flabbergasted. Bucky had never done anything like this before. So Steve said, “Jake,” and Bucky nodded grimly before walking into the church by himself.

            Ten minutes later, he emerged, looking a lot older than eleven.

            “Father Gregory doesn’t need to see you no more,” he said.

            “What?”

            Bucky grabbed him by the arm, dragging him away from the church. “Come on. We’re going home.”

            Steve tried to pull away from him, but Bucky was so much stronger. “Buck—hey, would you lay off? What’s wrong with you?”

            “You’re a real genius sometimes, you know that?”

            Yanking his arm away, Steve said, “Why’re you being such a jerk?” He started turning back to the church.

            Only Bucky latched onto him again, this time tighter. Tight enough to hurt. Steve yelped as Bucky dragged him over to some trees behind the church.

            “Let go of me—“

            Bucky hit him.

            It wasn’t anything. Not compared to all the blows Steve had ever taken. Just a light slap across the face. Except it came from Bucky. Bucky had _never_ hit him before. Not in the four years they had been best friends.

            Steve stared at him, shocked into silence.

            Bucky stepped close to him, and Steve suddenly realized that he was scared. Well, _he_ was scared, yeah, but _Bucky_ was scared. He had never seen Bucky afraid before, and seeing that was terrifying.

            “You listen to me,” Bucky said hoarsely. “You go home and you tell your ma you can’t be no altar boy anymore. Tell her the incense is too bad for your asthma, and you’re real sorry, but you just can’t do it.”

            “Buck—“

            “Are you listening to me? You’re gonna go home and tell her you can’t do it. She’ll believe you because it’s probably even true, only you’re too thick to realize it. And you don’t ever—no matter what, Stevie, no matter what anyone says, no matter who says it to you, you don’t ever be alone with Father Gregory. You hear me, Stevie? Tell me you understand.”

            “I _don’t_ understand,” Steve said helplessly.

            “Why do you think that kid and his whole family left the neighbourhood, huh? Are you that stupid? Jesus—“

            “Buck—“        

            “ _No_!” Bucky snapped. “Tell me you won’t ever be alone with him. Tell me. Promise me, Steve. You gotta promise me.”

            Frightened, Steve asked, “Why?”

            Shaking his head, cheeks blooming with colour, Bucky needed a moment before he could push out his response. “Because—“ He pointed at Steve, barely breathing. “If he ever touches you—if he ever lays a finger on you, I will _kill_ him.” Steve went stark white, but Bucky didn’t stop. “I will murder him, Steve, I swear to God. Look at me and tell me you don’t believe me.”

            Steve believed him.

            Steve stuttered, “W-why would you—“

            “You don’t have to understand, you just have to promise me. Steve, do you trust me?”

            He nodded.

            Bucky bent down, his grey eyes boring into Steve’s. “Promise me.”

            Steve promised. It was the first time Steve ever chose Bucky over God.

Ninety years later, Natasha asks, “Was he—“

            Steve shakes his head. “No. I asked him about it once. In the war. One of those nights when there’s nothing to do but drag up old wounds. He saw the priest do something inappropriate with the kid who moved away. I asked him, when we talked about it, if he really would have killed the priest. And he just looked at me and said, ‘In a heartbeat.’ And he would have.”

 

He tells her he first realized that he loved Bucky when he was twelve.

            He does _not_ tell her that his first orgasm happened because he was thinking about his best friend, how he looked when summer came and Bucky would stretch out on the fire escape, his skin somehow turning a beautiful bronze instead of the red that Steve’s equally Irish skin would go. He thought about Bucky’s slow, easy grin, and the careless way he moved when they played sports at school. He thought about how Bucky would sling an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to whisper something private in his ear.

            And after, he was so horrified, so disgusted with himself that he spent the rest of the night on his knees beside his bed, praying almost frantically, hands clasped so tight that the next day he could hardly move them. He asked God to make him normal, or to just kill him. He knew he wasn’t supposed to live long, but if God could just take him now, before he could make things worse, that would be better.

            Every day after that, he felt like people looked at him, and they just _knew_.

            He was so scared that Bucky knew. Any time Steve thought he was being sneaky, Bucky could see through him like a window. He tried to avoid Bucky, but that was almost as bad. And Bucky wouldn’t go away. “If you’re sore at me, just say so,” Bucky kept saying, and Steve was sick at that. He didn’t want Bucky to hate him, either for ignoring him or for being a freak.

            Steve understood that this was what hell must be like.

 

He tells her about when his mother sat him down when he was fifteen.

            They were in the kitchen, and Ma said, “Steven, I need to talk with you about something.”

            Steve had been worried. Were they going to lose the house? Had something gone wrong at work? He wanted to get a job, and he’d tried to, but everyone knew he was always sick, and no one wanted to hire a boy who had one foot in the grave.

            His mother pushed back a lock of hair, which by then had started to grey, though she was still young. Steve knew he was responsible for every one of those grey hairs. To him, though, his mother would always be the most beautiful woman in the world. Not quite looking at him, Ma said, “Steven—you have to make more of an effort with girls.”

            He went absolutely red. He wondered if anybody else in the neighbourhood would have to get this speech. It’s not like he hadn’t tried—he’d had a crush on Maureen Kilpatrick that lasted a year, and she hadn’t so much as ever looked at him. “Ma, no girls want me.”

            “Steven, you have to make the effort.”

            Mortified, Steve said, “Nobody wants—Ma, please, we don’t have to—“

            She leaned forward slightly, cutting him off. He had her eyes. Almost everything about him, he could see in her face. The colour of her hair, the hue of her skin, the faint splash of freckles. “Steven. I know—“ She put a hand to her forehead.

            Steve started to get nauseous. “Ma?”

            Lowering her hand, Ma said to him, “I love you. You know there’s no one on God’s green earth that I love more. But Steven—it’s a mortal sin. My darling boy—you’re playing games with your soul. You must know that.”

            He refused to believe that she was talking about what he thought she was. “I don’t understand—“

            “Steven,” she said, and he could tell that she was sick at heart. “My boy. I am your mother. Do you think that I don’t know you? I love you, I love you so much, and I couldn’t bear it—I couldn’t bear if you left me with this on your soul. A leanbh. A stóirín. I’m begging you. I can only carry so much, Steven.”

            She knew. He hung his head, wishing he could die right then and there. It would serve him right if he did. He’d burn for all eternity, and he should. A freak who shamed his mother.

            Ma reached out, taking his hands. “He’s our family,” she murmured, and Steve closed his eyes. “And I love him too. But you can’t love him the other way, Steven. Not if we’re going to be together in the next life. All of us. You, me, him, your father. I want us all to be together. I need us to be, a stóirín.”

            All Steve could do was nod. He was so ashamed. She already worried so much about him—he’d made her worry about this too. He was a terrible son, a terrible person. It would be better if he died.

            “You’ll make more of an effort? You’ll do that for me?”

            He nodded, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

            She kissed his forehead, and pulled his head down on her shoulder, and he wished more than anything that he could be strong for her. That he would not be so _weak_.

 

He tells her that Bucky Barnes was the first person he ever kissed.

            He tells her about the Spring Formal, how it was supposed to be the two of them and the DiPaolo sisters, and Steve had been thinking so much about what his mother said to him the month before, about making an effort, and he did like Theresa. She had curly brown hair, only it reminded him of Bucky’s when he didn’t comb it into submission, and Steve knew he wasn’t supposed to think like that. Theresa was a real swell girl, and he would have never gotten her to go to the dance with him if Bucky hadn’t asked her to.

            He sat in the kitchen before the dance, the same chair he’d been on when his mother asked him to make more of an effort, and Bucky came in. He looked so smooth, same as always. Bucky was tall and handsome, confident in everything he did. He wasn’t even a virgin anymore, and Steve had yelled at him for it. Acted like he was mad because Bucky had been with a married woman, but really, Steve’s heart had broken because he was sick and small and disgusting and he wished that it had been him.

            Bucky could tell there was something wrong—he could _always_ tell—and he tried to drag it out of Steve. Finally, Steve capitulated a little, confessing that he was worried because he’d never kissed anyone. He really was terrified that Theresa would want to kiss him. Somehow, he thought that if she did, she’d know that even though he liked her, and he did, he liked someone more. Someone wrong.

            And Steve could have died right then and there when Bucky offered to kiss him.

            He tried to beg off, but he hadn’t tried that hard.

            Then Bucky did something Steve hadn’t expected. He apologized, said he didn’t mean to scare him.

            As soon as he did, Steve realized that Bucky _wanted_ to kiss him. Bucky might know him, but Steve knew all of Bucky’s tricks, and using the word ‘scared’ was one of them. He wanted to do this, and he knew saying the word would force Steve into doing it.

            Steve didn’t know how to tell him that he didn’t have to be forced into anything.

            Somehow, knowing that Bucky wanted to do this too made him forget everything else. He listened as Bucky told him how to kiss, kneeled on the ground between Steve’s knees, and Steve had been terrified, but overwhelmed. Bucky wanted to do this. He wanted to kiss Steve.

            So he did as he was told, and put his hands to Bucky’s face. When he did, he saw the flutter of Bucky’s eyelids, the pleasure at the touch. _He wants this,_ Steve realized with amazement, and it cleared all doubts away.

            He asked, “May I?”

            All the kidding went out of the proceedings, as Bucky gazed at him with grey eyes. They changed colour, depending on the light, and in that moment, they looked grey. Steve saw that Bucky knew exactly what he was doing, and he saw that Steve knew what he was doing too. Bucky nodded into his hands, and Steve kissed him.

            It was perfect. It was the kiss that all others would be measured by in Steve’s life. It was the first time in his life that he was overwhelmed by getting something that he _wanted_. Not being told no, not being told he wasn’t good enough or strong enough. It was everything he wanted, there in that moment, with the only person he knew he’d ever love like this.

            But reality intervened. He remembered what he was doing, what he was risking—his soul, but worse than that, _Bucky’s_ soul. He couldn’t do that. He would _never_ do that.

            So he’d pushed him away, told him to go.

            Even then, Bucky promised to always take care of him.

            Steve had prayed and prayed and prayed for Bucky. He pleaded with God to forgive Bucky. It never occurred to him to ask forgiveness for himself.

 

He tells her that he came back from the dead for Bucky.

            He was eighteen years old, the pneumonia so bad this time that he knew this was the end. It wasn’t that bad a thing to happen—his ma had been so sick. She’d been in and out of the hospital the past two years with TB, and she didn’t have long. He’d known that. But he couldn’t even die right—he was doing it before her. She pleaded with him not to go before she did. A mother wasn’t supposed to outlive her child.

            He was a disappointment even now.

            Steve was distantly aware of the priest speaking over him. Something touched his mouth. He mumbled, and heard someone crying. He figured out that he was receiving the last rites, and went under.

            The next thing he knew, he was wrapped up in an embrace so warm and loving that he thought he’d died. He thought this might be heaven.

            He listened, half gone, as Bucky whispered in his ear, “You can’t do this. You can’t leave me alone, Stevie. I love you too goddamn much. Don’t leave me, buddy. Don’t leave me here.” He felt Bucky’s tears against his skin.

            Steve dreamed he was underwater. He dreamed a hand reached down for him, and Bucky pulled him back from the depths.

            The next day, he woke up, Bucky on one side, his ma on the other, and the first thing Steve said was, “How we doing in the Series?” Still so delirious that he didn’t realize the season hadn’t even started, but alive.

            Both Ma and Bucky burst into laughter and tears at the same time.

 

He tells her that two months later, before she died, his mother made him promise he’d get married and have kids.

            He tells her that two months after that, he moved in with Bucky.

 

He tells her that the years they lived together were the happiest of his life.

            He tells her about the World of Tomorrow and the Cyclone and how when they went to the freak show at Coney, a guy cracked, “Ain’t you supposed to be up there with the midgets?” And before Steve could even snap back something like, “Ain’t you supposed to be in the petting zoo with the rest of the animals?” Bucky had kneed the man in the balls. Leaning over the man’s prone, wheezing body, Bucky said casually, “Oh, I’m sorry—were you not finished flapping your yap?”

            He tells her about art school and the prize Bucky won for his metal sculpture of seagulls and how Bucky didn’t seem to care, but when Steve was top in his drawing class, Bucky took them out and told every person they met how Steve was the best artist in all of Brooklyn. He tells her about Bucky working eight hour shifts and then doing another eight hours at school because Steve pleaded for him to go to school with him, but never complaining about how tired he was. He tells her how Bucky always put food on the table, even when there was no money, and how Steve never asked where it came from.

            He tells her about the girls, how Bucky had a date every weekend, reeling them in with that grin and a few lines of poetry, how sometimes he would say, “You gotta take a walk tonight, Stevie,” and Steve would go down to the docks and sketch the Manhattan skyline or the navy yard, and he’d wait until he knew it was okay to go home. Bucky would be waiting for him, and he’d tell Steve the good and the bad, and things to make Steve blush, but Bucky never made him feel bad about not bringing a girl home himself. He’d set Steve up with girls, and Steve would see how amused Bucky was when Steve flamed out spectacularly, and they’d walk home together, Bucky messing his hair up, saying, “You’ll get ‘em next time, killer.”

            He tells her that he knew about the men Bucky was with. He never knew how many, because Bucky never said. There was one night he came home with his mouth scratched up, the way he’d seen some women after they’d made out with a guy who had a beard. Sometimes Bucky would smell like someone else’s aftershave, and he’d be happy and loose and he wouldn’t talk at all about his day, he’d just want to hear about Steve’s. It hurt so much more than the women, but Steve was frozen, trapped between God and his lost family’s expectations and his own hatred of himself, his fear of what others would say.

            He doesn’t tell her that they shared the same bed for years, and most nights he had bad dreams, and there were times when he woke himself up from the force of them, and he’d swear that Bucky’s hand had been on his hair. Bucky would ask, “Everything jake?” and Steve would nod and go back to sleep.

            He doesn’t tell her about the time when he pretended to have a nightmare, just to see what would happen. What happened was Bucky stroked his hair, and whispered sleepily, “It’s okay, Stevie. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I’m right here.”

            He doesn’t tell her about the mornings when he’d wake up first, and find himself curled up next to Bucky, or Bucky’s arms around him. He would give himself ten seconds to enjoy this sin, then carefully extricate himself.

            He doesn’t tell her about the mornings when he’d wake up like that and act like he was still asleep, waiting to see what Bucky would do when he woke. What happened was this: Bucky would heave slightly as he rose into consciousness. He’d turn his head, give Steve a little kiss on the hair, then slip away.

 

He tells her about the war coming.

            He wanted to serve so desperately. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t useless, that he was someone, that everything everyone ever said about him was wrong. He wasn’t weak or a queer or 4F, he was someone who could contribute. He loved his country, he wanted to protect it. He _ached_ to protect it.

            And Bucky was going to go.

            It drove Steve crazy. Bucky was everything he had always wanted to be, and Steve knew this weird thing he felt for him—okay, that they felt for each other—had to stop, and he couldn’t help but feel jealous and envious and terrified. Bucky was going where he wasn’t. Steve had a terrible premonition that if he wasn’t there with him, Bucky was going to get himself killed. They hadn’t been apart for more than a day since they were children.

            Bucky enlisted, and Steve was alone in their apartment. He tried to enlist, again and again and again. Every time, they said the same thing: we’re doing you a favour. You’d get yourself killed.

            Every time they said it, they might as well have said, _you’re not good enough for our country, and you’re not strong enough to have his back_.

            The night Bucky left for good, they had a double date, and Steve wished that it was just the two of them. Understood that it couldn’t be, because Bucky was smarter than him. Bucky knew each of them would have to get married, would have to be normal. Bucky was a soldier. He was everything Steve wanted to be and was supposed to be, and Steve hated him for it a little.

            They argued. Steve wanted to try to enlist again, and Bucky tried talking him out of it. Because Bucky was scared for him. Steve knew. He knew Bucky, so of course he knew. But Steve couldn’t help but hear: _you will get yourself killed and you aren’t strong enough to protect me_.

            At the last minute, instead of walking away angry, Bucky hugged him, called him a punk and Steve called him a jerk, because he didn’t know how to tell Bucky what he really meant.

            As he watched him walk away, Steve thought, _there’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow. Don’t think I would ever leave you_.

            He turned and went to enlist again.

 

He tells her about Peggy.

            He tells her about how she was kind to him, how she was curious about him. He wasn’t like the others in the running for the experiment. Not in any way, shape, or form.

            He tells her that he didn’t let Bucky know he got into the army, because he figured Bucky would flip his lid.

            He tells her about jumping on what he thought was a live grenade, trying to protect the other men, and when he realized it was a dud, his first thought was _Bucky would KILL me_. His second thought, when he looked up, was, _Did Peggy see that?_

            She had.

 

He tells her about the circus of being Captain America stateside. How embarrassing it was.

            Knowing that thousands and thousands of people were overseas, doing their patriotic duty, and he was on stage in tights five nights a week, pretending to punch Hitler.

            He didn’t tell Bucky what had happened for a year. He was too mortified and frustrated.

 

He tells her about going overseas. Seeing Peg. How she was just about the only good thing he’d seen since coming to Italy. Feeling that inescapable pull towards her.

            His relief. That he could feel this way about a woman. He didn’t just like her. It wasn’t just a crush. He wanted her, and badly.

            Then hearing that Bucky had been captured. Hearing they weren’t going to do a _goddamn_ thing about it.

            That’s the moment he became Captain America. He didn’t set out to be a hero because of all those men taken prisoner, or because of his need to prove himself not only to his country, but the world.

            He became Captain America to save Bucky Barnes.

            He destroyed a HYDRA base to save Bucky Barnes.

            He jumped through fire, because Bucky Barnes believed he could.

            And after, when Bucky was so mad at him that he punched Steve square in the eye, he could see that Bucky had changed too. The light had gone from his eyes, and the careless ease of him had a hard edge. He was ragged, and Steve thought of the table he’d been strapped to, and he had asked Bucky what happened.

            Bucky told him he wasn’t allowed to ask.

            So Steve didn’t.

 

He tells her about the war.

            He tells her about falling in love with Peg, and fighting with the Commandos, and destroying the HYDRA bases, and suddenly being the man he was _supposed_ to be. This was a man his father would have been proud to call his son. He wasn’t weak. He was Captain America.

            There was so much he could do now. He could see, and his reflexes shocked him sometimes, and when he gave orders, people followed.

            Bucky followed his orders.

            Steve was so busy with his new life that the change in Bucky only occasionally filled him with unease. Bucky drank more, said less, and Steve could see that his smile was rarely meant.

            Only Steve had more important things to think about. He had an enemy, and a fight, and finally, he was a _real_ man—not a weakling. Not a freak.

            He was going to win this war, and he was going to marry Peggy Carter, and everyone would know his worth.

            Then Bucky died.

 

He tells her that when he got off the train, he couldn’t speak. Dugan had to take over, because Steve had ceased to function.

            He went back to that bar in England, where he’d gotten all the Commandos together. Peg had tried to talk to him, but Steve could barely hear her.

            He went back to his room and cried for the first time in twenty years.

            Two months passed.

 

He tells her that he was almost relieved to go into the water. He loved Peggy—God, he did. They’d had one kiss, but he’d had one kiss with Bucky too, and that didn’t mean Steve loved Bucky any less. Only after he was gone did Steve realize how stupid he had been.

            Shame? Sin? God? It meant nothing—it meant fucking _nothing_.

            Bucky had never made him feel bad for being himself. Steve knew that Bucky would have done anything for him. If Steve had said, “I love you, and I know that makes me a freak,” then Bucky would have just replied, “So what? You’re my freak,” and that would have been the end of it. They wouldn’t have been normal together, but they would have been together, and that would have been better.

            So going into the ice—Steve hadn’t felt that bad about it. He had loved two of the greatest people in the world, and he was saving the country his father had died to protect too. He was lucky.

            Peggy’s voice in his ear, Steve just kept thinking, _I have been so lucky_.

 

He tells her that when he woke up, his first thought was of Peggy, because she had been the last thing he heard. But when he was out on the street and he saw the world, he could only think of Bucky.

            A new world. Bucky would have loved this.

            But Bucky was dead.

 

He tells her that when he saw Bucky, after the fight on the causeway, his world imploded.

            Somehow, he had learned to live with his losses. He couldn’t just sit and bemoan what was gone. People were depending on him. Captain America was a joke, but it was all he had. So he fought and defended and lived for his country and tried to survive in this new world.

            But Bucky wasn’t dead.

 

He tells her that he threw his shield in the water as the helicarrier went down. Said he wouldn’t fight Bucky, and Bucky had proceeded to beat him senseless. Steve didn’t mind. Not really.

            At the last moment, that metal fist had paused, and Steve said the words to him. Their words. And when Bucky looked at him, his eyes looked grey in the light.

            Then Steve fell.

            It was only fair.

 

He tells her that he couldn’t stop looking. Not after that. He hadn’t looked for Bucky after the train, and that was a sin he could never wipe clear. He’d been so convinced that Bucky was dead—he had been in such a daze that he hadn’t even asked what happened to the body. If he’d done his best friend, the most important person in his life, the basic courtesy of giving him a decent burial, he would have known.

            But when he finally thought to ask, Phillips had told him that Barnes had been taken care of. Steve hadn’t asked what that meant. If they’d sent men out and been unable to find him or if it was just a lost cause or if he’d been sent home or if he had a grave somewhere in Europe.

            So Steve couldn’t stop looking. He looked for two years, and every other mission was a distraction. He had to make right what he’d broken.

            Only there was no making things right. He found Bucky, but he broke everything else.

 

He tells her that watching Bucky go back into cryo was one of the most difficult things he had ever done.

            Bucky had smiled, said he knew what he was doing, but it was the same smile he’d given Steve in the months after he was captured. It was a smile that lied.

            Steve had spent so long searching and fighting that he didn’t have it in himself to argue. And Bucky had spent decades being controlled by other people. Didn’t he deserve the right to choose? How could Steve say no? How could he argue?

            So he stood and watched as Bucky was taken from him, one more time.

 

He tells her about MODOK.

 

He tells her, “We were flying to the city, and we got in this fight—and he lost it. Like I’ve never seen him lose it our whole lives. He told me—“

            Steve has to put his head down. He rubs his hand over his hair. His throat is raw. It’s coming up on one in the morning, and Steve Rogers has never said so much in his entire life.

            “What did he tell you?” Natasha murmurs.

            “Everything I was afraid of,” Steve says. He has to hold his head up with his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “That I let him fall. That I didn’t look for him. That the past seventy years, what they did to him, it was all my fault. He said I was the love of his life, and he wished that he’d never loved me.” He rubs the heel of his palms against his forehead, the way he’d seen Bucky do. “I’ve had some awful days, but that…I’m not sure if I’ve had worse.”

            Steve drops his hands, and gets to the end as quick as he can, because he’s not sure how much more he can take. “I was saying goodbye to them. Bucky—wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t say goodbye, so I started to go, only he called out to me. So I stopped. He came over, and—Sam and I, when we were debriefed, we said that he just hugged me, and that’s when he did it. But that’s not what happened. He…said he loved me, even if he didn’t use the exact words, and I did the same thing. Then I kissed him. Then he hugged me, and that’s when he stabbed me.”

            Steve hasn’t got anything left. He just rests his head on his knees, wrung out.

            He’s never told anyone those things before. He’s not even sure he’s admitted most of it to himself.

            After a few seconds, he sits back up. He wants to sleep. He wants to sleep and not dream.

            “Well,” Natasha says, “I guess we’d better find him.”

            Steve slumps a little. She slips an arm through his, and leans against him. She must be cold—they’re still sitting in the snow, even if he can barely feel the change in temperature. But she hasn’t complained. She’s listened.

            “You said people leave because they don’t want to stay.”

            “He stabbed you to save your life. Sounds like true love to me.”

            He laughs a little. “You know…there’s people who would think I’m out of my mind. Telling all these terrible things to the most dangerous woman in the world.”

            “Aw. You think I’m the most dangerous woman in the world?”

            “Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

            Natasha pats his arm, gives it a rub. “Someday, Steve—when I’m ready—I’ll tell you the story of my life. That’ll more than even the score.”

            “We’re friends. We don’t need to keep score.”

            “You’re not Captain America. You don’t need to be so _virtuous_.” She squeezes his arm, and says softly, “Steve. We’ll find him.”

            He doesn’t look at her. Instead, he just nods.

            She rests her head on his shoulder, and they sit there awhile longer.


	6. Unofficially

He’s behind a wall of sandbags, bullets flying overhead. Steve drops next to Morita, and looks at himself. He’s only wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Why isn’t he in his suit? They’re in combat—he needs his suit—and his shield, _Jesus Christ_ , where’s his shield?

            “He’s coming, Cap.” Morita drops the magazine of his Greaser, replacing it with a fresh one.

            “And he looks pissed,” Bucky says from behind him.

            Steve turns to him, and asks, “What have we got?”

            Bucky’s forehead is cut, his long hair falling down to his shoulders. Peeking up over the barricade, he answers, “No idea.” He glances at Steve, and his expression goes incredulous. “Where’s your suit, you idiot?”

            “I don’t know—doesn’t seem to be the point right now—“

            Bucky spits in disgust, “You want to fight a war, you need a uniform—“

            Everything is drowned out by a roar that almost splits the sky, and they all go flying backwards, Morita’s gun spraying bullets. Steve is in the air, arms flailing, and the last thing he sees before waking is a wall of raging green.

           

Lurching awake, he reaches for the shield.

            Right.

            “Morning.”

            Steve raises his head, blinking away some of the sleep. Natasha’s standing behind the counter, sipping from a mug. Steve is flat on his stomach on the couch. “Hey,” he says tiredly.

            He pushes himself up, rubbing at his eyes with the ball of his hand. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more attractive with bed head. It’s a crime, Rogers.”

            “There coffee?” he asks.

            “Uh huh.”

            Steve gets up, and judging from the light coming in, it’s close to nine. They need to get to work.

            She came over, after the bar. They stayed up until four watching _Chicken Run_. It was ridiculous—the former Captain America and the forever Black Widow watching claymation in the middle of the night. But Natasha said, “Want to watch a movie?” and Steve said yes. It seemed like a good idea at the time. He would never admit it now, but he hadn’t wanted to be alone.

            Steve starts to blush. He can’t believe last night even happened. A lifetime spent trying to be stoic, and he spilled his guts without any real prompting. He hadn’t told her everything, but God, he had told her more than was sensible.          

            Rubbing the back of his neck, Steve mumbles, “Uh—Nat—“

            Face a blank, she replies, “We won’t talk about it. Not unless you want to. And honestly, I don’t know how much more support I’ve got to give. I have limits too.”

            Steve smiles with relief.

            Natasha nods down the hall. “Go get ready. We need to drop by my place before going in. If I don’t change into black, folks might think I’m going soft.” With a grin, Steve heads toward the bathroom, and Natasha calls, “Hey—when are you going to get a haircut? It’s getting ridiculous. Attractive, but ridiculous.”

 

It’s two days before they’re called back into Fury’s office. In the meantime, Steve runs laps and beats punching bags and spars with Natasha. When he asks Clint if he wants to have a go, Barton just smirks and acknowledges, “I’m secure enough in my manhood to admit I know who’d win that fight, but not secure enough to actually live it.” He leaves for Wyoming, not bothering to hide how eager he is. Good for him.

            When Natasha and Steve are brought in, Fury’s changed the hologram on the window to a snow covered forest. It strikes Steve as being extremely odd. He never thinks of Fury as the kind of man to say, _hey, today I feel like a change of scenery_.

            Then again, Steve knows no one would expect him to own everything Aardman has ever produced.

            “Liechtenstein,” Fury says.

            “Payne talked,” Natasha replies, sitting slouched, knees spread. Steve can’t help but notice how comfortable she looks, while he’s got his shoulders back straight, hands resting on his thighs.

            “Not as much as we would have hoped, but he gave us this much.” Fury pulls up the display. “Using your Bratva cover, we’ll schedule a meet at the facility in nine days’ time.”

            Natasha lets out a small sigh, and Steve’s not sure why until she says, “When do we leave?”

            “Counter needs three days to put you and your bodyguard on the map, Miss Budanova.” Fury holds a tablet out to Steve. He takes it, turning it on. He sees his body but with a new face, and the name Gerasim Timoshenko. The nose on his new face looks a little squashed, like a man who’s been in a few fights, and not won all of them. “In the meantime, you’ll brush up on your backgrounds before heading to Volgograd.”

            “I’m mute,” Steve says, amused.

            “That’ll be a problem,” Natasha says to Fury. “You know how chatty he is.” Steve casts her a sideways glance, and she doesn’t so much as blink.

            “And I have hearing loss,” Steve continues.

            “Well, last I checked, you don’t speak Russian,” says Fury, “so we’re working with what we have. It’ll help if you lose your micro translator again.”

            It happened once. _Once_. “Does my cover have to be Russian?”

            “Yep,” Natasha says. “Alina Budanova wouldn’t hire anyone else. Bratva doesn’t like outsiders.”

            “And I have tattoos,” Steve notes, raising a brow.

            “How else will they know how much time you’ve done in prison?”

            “Black Dolphin.”

            Natasha leans over. “They’re saying you were in Black Dolphin? They realize that people don’t _leave_ Black Dolphin, right?”

            “Hello,” Fury says, and they both return their attention to him, Steve putting the tablet down. He’ll learn his cover inside and out over the next few days. He wonders how long it will take to tattoo him this time. It seems a waste. It only takes about twelve days for his body to completely expel the ink.

            It’s a shame. Steve thinks he would really like to have some tattoos.

            “Payne doesn’t know much, but he’s told us that the altered yerba mate extract is only an ingredient in a serum.”

            “Are they making super soldiers?” Steve asks.

            “That’s the general consensus. Your mission will be to obtain a sample of the serum, and then destroy the facility.”

            Natasha crosses her arms. “What about personnel?”

            “We’ve determined that neither Cherise Jackson nor Dr. Malus will be there at the time of your meet and greet. Instead, you’ll be speaking to this man—“ A picture pops up on the screen of a man younger than the both of them, with a sly smile and dark eyes. “Paolo Cugino. He runs the facility. We’d like a word with him, after you’ve had a tour.”

            Natasha nods. “So I go in, say I want what they’re selling, and get him to sing?”

            “That’s what we’re paying you for.” Fury leans back in his seat. “Review your covers and report to counter by Friday at noon. We’ll meet back here in three days’ time at 11:00.”

            His voice lets them know they’re dismissed.

            Natasha gets up, but Steve stays seated. “May I have a word?” he asks.

            Natasha pauses. Fury gazes at Steve, then says, “You want a word too, Romanoff?”

            “Nope,” she says, and leaves the office, closing the door behind her.

            Steve folds his hands in his lap. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t let on how nervous he is, asking this.

            Fury looks settled in his seat. Even in this small, underground office, where he does things that will never appear anywhere official, he looks like this is his kingdom, and he is the undisputed king. “This word you wanted. What would it be?”

            Face carefully clear, Steve says, “I know you keep an eye on everyone.”

            “Was that a pun?”

            “No, sir.” It wasn’t even a play on words.

            “Good. I hate puns. Who is it that you’re looking for?”

            “James Barnes.”

            Fury doesn’t react. In fact, he doesn’t so much as blink. Steve sits, patient as he can, stomach churning, and waits for an answer.

            After five seconds, Fury says, “James Barnes is dead. Officially.”

            “And unofficially?”

            Steve knows he’s playing a dangerous game here. Bucky blew up a car that Fury was in, shot him multiple times and almost killed him. Steve hasn’t asked what Fury knows because he’s wondered if Fury has his own agenda, one that Steve might have to stop.

            Only Steve needs to ask. Natasha might pretend to know everything, but Fury does know almost everything. If anyone in this organization has a lead on Bucky, it would be Fury.

            “Unofficially,” Fury says, “I have no idea.”

            He can’t tell if it’s the truth or not. Fury is impenetrable, always has been. Steve respects that about him, but it makes him livid too. He has never really known what the man is thinking, and while he might respect him, he sure as hell doesn’t trust him.

            “Anything else?” Fury says, letting him know the conversation is over.

            There’s a million other things. Instead, Steve just says, “No, sir,” and leaves.

 

Steve’s looking at pictures of Brooklyn when his phone rings.

            He glances back at it. It’s sitting on his kitchen counter, and he’s across the room at his desk. It is seven at night, and no one’s going to be calling him for any kind of good reason. Not now that he and Sharon are split up.

            Sighing, thinking _what the hell else did I have planned for the evening_ , Steve gets up and walks over to it. Flipping it over, he checks the caller ID, then smiles.

            Answering, he says, “You don’t have anything better to do than harass an old man?”

            Sam grins out at him, shrugging. “Well, someone told me your barbershop quartet was dead.”

            Steve snorts, and sits on one of the stools. “How are you, Sam?”

            “I’m great! I’m good, man, I’m really good. How are you?”

            _Miserable. I hate my job, my life, I’ve just been broken up with for the first time, my home town was blown up, and the love of my life has disappeared after literally stabbing me in the back._

            “Good,” Steve says.

            “Yeah? What’re you up to?”

            He can see that Sam’s in his apartment in DC, holding up the phone as he walks around. “Just getting ready for a job.”

            Sam knows he can’t tell him anymore than that, so he changes the subject. “Hey, wasn’t that thing you were excited about this weekend? The film festival or something?”

            Steve nods with a smile, having completely forgotten about it. Without needing to keep up the pretence of normality, he’s automatically lost any desire to go out among people. “Yeah, you bet. What about you? How’s the job going?”

            “Steve,” Sam says, rolling his eyes as he pulls something from his fridge. “My God. I thought I heard some things back in the day when I was working for the VA. Counselling services for SHIELD? There’s days when I think the Raft might have been the easier option.” The screen jostles as Sam flops down on his couch. Steve has never been to his apartment, but he likes the Kandinsky prints on the walls. Sam’s place looks like a home, just from the little scraps Steve has seen. “I sure as hell hope they’re paying my therapist good money, because look out.”

            Sam’s always been so much easier at bringing these things up. From the first time they met. He’s never been ashamed of not being perfect. Steve has been in awe of that from moment one, but he’s never known how to tell Sam. It’s not the kind of thing you tell a man.

            “How’s yours working out?”

            “About as well as you’d expect,” Steve replies, a bit apologetic.

            Sam gives him a flat gaze. “Steve.”

            “She’s nice. She’s very nice, I just….” Steve shrugs.

            “You’re just old and stoic and used to burying things under eight layers of concrete.”

            “No, in my day it was ten.”

            “Steve.”

            “Yeah, buddy.”

            Sam’s looking past him. “Tell me you’re not sitting alone, going through those.”

            Steve looks back over his shoulder, and flushes. He moves so that Sam can’t see past him, to the computer screen and its images of the blasted wasteland that used to be home to a million people. “In my defense, it’s not like I do it every night.”

            “Steve—“

            “How are things progressing with the—what do they call her again? I mean, I know her name, I know it’s Angela, but her job—“

            “Piercer,” Sam says, his tone letting Steve know he’s not off the hook for anything.

            “That’s it? I thought the kids would have come up with something with more syllables. Try to make it sound more respectable.”

            “It’s plenty respectable, and Angela is a fantastic woman. I literally don’t know why she gives me the time of day.”

            “Yeah, me neither. If she’s putting metal in people for a living, I figured she would have picked someone a lot cooler than you.”

            “Well, you haven’t seen my nipples lately. For all you know—“ Sam’s grin spreads from ear to ear. “You should see your face right now,” he guffaws.

            Steve covers his eyes with one hand, shaking his head. When he can speak without sounding like he’s choking, he says, “You are my friend, and I wish only for your happiness.”

            “My nipples are not pierced, Rogers.”

            “I really didn’t need to know either way.”

            “To answer your question, me and Angela are doing really well. Hit three months yesterday.”

            Genuinely pleased, Steve says, “That’s great, Sam. I’m really happy for you.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to get down here and meet her. Make the time. Guilt complex be damned, I want you to come visit, since I’m not allowed up there. You better promise me, Steve.”

“Will do,” Steve says. He means it. He just—it’s complicated.

Sam raises his brows. “So?”

            “And what, did you want me to go ask for the time this second?”

            “No, Captain Oblivious—how’s your lady? How’s Miss Carter?”

            _Oh hell_. Steve isn’t sure what to tell him. He could lie, and say things are fine, but that would just get him deeper. But he doesn’t want to tell the truth, because he’s already burdened Sam with enough for a lifetime.

            It’s a moot point, because he takes too long to answer, and Sam’s face falls. “You two doing okay?”

            _Honesty is the best policy_ , he thinks, and then Bucky’s voice chimes in after: _You get that off a fortune cookie, kid_? Steve admits, “We broke up.”

            Sam seems stricken. “Oh shit.”

            Steve raises his shoulders. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

            “Damn. Steve, that sucks—are you okay?”

            Dryly, he says, “I just specifically said that I am.”

            “What happened?”

            “Uh—“ Steve scratches the back of his head.

            Sam’s face changes again, eyes narrowing. “Steven Rogers, you did not break up with that woman, did you? Because she had the patience of a saint—“

            “No, she broke up with me.”

            “Oh shit,” Sam repeats. His brows furrow. “What was it? Was it the communication thing?”

            Steve tosses up his free hand. “Good _grief_ , if you all knew, why didn’t you say something to me?”

            “Steve, you’re not dumb. You know you’re not the easiest guy to—“ Sam shrugs.

            “Put up with?”

            “Well, that too. Anyway—when did this happen?”

            “A couple days ago.”

            “Man, why didn’t you call me?”

            Steve smiles wryly. “Didn’t you hear? I’m uncommunicative and secretive.”

            Sam snorts, and then slumps. “Aw, Steve—guess this is the first time for you, isn’t it.”

            “Well, there’s that time I crashed a plane into the Arctic, and woke up to find out my best girl married another guy and already had grandkids.” He sees the faint look in Sam’s eyes, and just thinks, _oh, fuck it_. “Okay, and the time I got stabbed too.” Sam’s eyebrows reach for his hairline, and Steve goes on, “But yeah, this is the first time someone I’ve cared about said something before it was over.”

            After a second, Sam nods a little. “So…are we not pretending like that other thing didn’t happen anymore?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about, especially since you know they’re monitoring these calls.”

            “Well—“

            “Short answer is somehow Natasha got me to talk about that, and I don’t think anybody wants to hear that whole ludicrous story again.”

            Sam’s eyes go wide. “ _Natasha_?” He sounds offended. Rearranging on the couch, Sam sticks his head out like a chicken. “Natasha Romanoff. You told—did you tell her everything? Like _everything_?”

            “From the early ‘20s, yeah.”

            Steve’s startled when Sam yelps, “You’re _kidding_ me! You are kidding me. How many years have I been your wingman, and you tell Natasha everything instead of me?”

            “Well—you’re always complaining about how everybody acts like you’re a therapist instead of a—sorry, what was the acronym—“

            “BAMF!” Sam yells. “I’m a stone cold BAMF! You’re also my best friend, you jackass!” Sam quickly calms down, lifting a hand. “Okay, I got that out of my system. This is about you right now, not me.”

            “No,” Steve says with an eye roll. “Let’s never have it be about me, ever again. I’m sick to death of things being about me. Tell me about Angela. Tell me about—seeing your family. Tell me all about your life.” Sam starts to protest, but Steve insists, “Sam. Would you—humor me? For a friend?”

            Sam lets out a growl before giving in. He knows Steve well enough to see when to push, and when Steve won’t budge. They both know he doesn’t budge for much. “For a friend, sure. I’ll also do it for a jackass who doesn’t understand when the appropriate time to lean on his friend is.” Sam thinks about it, then raises his shoulders. “So—“ The left side of his mouth curls upwards. “I don’t have any piercings, but Angela does.”

            Steve braces himself.

            “You sure you want to hear about my life? Because my life’s pretty interesting right now.”

            Not even wanting to know what his face is doing, Steve says, “I have no problem hearing about what kids do these days.”

            “Steve—if we’re talking about years we’ve been conscious, you remember that I’m older than you, right?”

            “If we’re talking about the theory of relativity, I can remember the Depression. That gives me an extra ten years right there. Don’t get me started about WW2.”

            “Greatest generation snobs,” Sam mutters, then proceeds to tell Steve things that make his ears turn red.

 

He dreams that he’s in the wrong place. He’s sitting beside the bed, and Bucky is sick.

            “It’s not supposed to be like this,” Steve whispers. He’s small, he’s so small, and there’s nothing he can do, not ever. When you’re small, you can’t do anything. It doesn’t matter how many fights you get in, how many black eyes you take for it. Some things you can’t fight for, no matter how badly you wish you could.

            Bucky’s swallowing repeatedly, looking to Steve for relief. His eyes are wide, and his hand starts to flap at his chest.

            “Buck?” Steve stands, reaching down to him. “What do you—Ma! Ma, are you—Bucky, I don’t know what to do, I don’t—“

            Bucky starts choking, scrabbling at his throat. He’s making a horrible wheezing noise, and Steve grabs his arm, wanting him to stop.

            As soon as he does, Bucky’s skin begins to turn yellow under Steve’s fingers. Steve snatches his hand back, horrified, knowing this is his fault. Bucky’s skin blisters as the poison spreads, his breaths becoming more panicked.

            He reaches for Steve, but Steve is too scared to do anything, so he steps away—

            Steve wakes up, hand automatically lunging outwards. His fingers snatch onto the shield, and he flips it up into his grasp as he sits.

            He sits alone in his dark bedroom, heart fast as a freight train, holding his shield like a talisman against the dreams. Steve swallows, running a hand over his hair. It’s slick with sweat. He’s wet all over from it.

            “Fuck,” he whispers, and rolls onto the other side of the bed, where it’s dry. He curls onto the shield, yanking the sheets up over himself, and falls back into restless sleep.


	7. The Meet

Steve can hardly believe how relieved he is to be in a German speaking country again.

            Volgograd was pretty difficult. He’s terrible at undercover. _Terrible_. Clint had better appreciate the living hell out of that week he’s had with his family, because Steve just spent five days listening to Russian mobsters bragging about the horrible things they’ve done, watching idiots hit on Natasha, and having to wear track pants under a leather jacket. It’s the last one that’s really done him in. At least now that they’re in Liechtenstein, he’s allowed to wear slacks. Steve has been in all kinds of awful situations, but he thinks wearing his old USO outfit would be more dignified than wearing track pants in public.

            Natasha’s none the worse for wear, because this is her element. She outdrank the men, told filthier jokes than all of them combined, recalled the most gruesome stories. Steve didn’t ask if any of the stories were true, but they had a lot more detail than he would have hoped for. As always, though, he’s not one to throw stones. At least not at his friends.

            They’re in the back of a car that met them at the airport, and have just gone through a gated section of road. Steve cannot wait to do this job. After five days of doing little but keep his mouth shut and his ears open, he’s craving physical action.           

            They’ll get into the facility, observe the operation, get the sample, destroy the place. Natasha’s dangling, geometric earrings are actually explosives. Steve has to give her credit, yet again. He’d sure as hell never keep a building-levelling weapon next to his head.

            But Natasha just flips her black hair back haughtily, tapping away at her phone as if she has more important things on her plate.

            He also can’t wait to get home and see her face again. Right now, Steve feels like he’s really with Alina Budanova. It’s the only face he’s seen on Natasha for days, and he’s only heard her speak in Russian, or very occasionally heavily accented English. Her long nails worry him a little. He doesn’t understand how she can function with them, let alone text.

            He wonders if it bothers Natasha. Or if she even cares. He remembers that conversation they had, three years ago now, escaping DC. When she asked what he wanted her to be. Like she could put on any face without giving it a second thought. When she looks in the mirror and sees this person looking back—the less prominent cheekbones, the thinner lips, the prominent makeup—does she ever wonder if it’s worth it?

            Or maybe that’s just Steve, projecting his own issues onto everyone else.

            They drive further into the Alps. He hates mountains, and especially these ones.

            It’s evening. Their meeting with Cugino is for seven o’clock. Steve has restraints hidden in his watch. Pick-up will be at 21:30. Steve’s supposed hearing aids have worked as an automatic translator for the last few days, and it will keep him in contact with the extraction team.

            Well, the team this time around is 37 flying the jet, and 45, just in case they need an extra set of hands. So the team is not exactly mighty.

            Oh well. He and Natasha usually have things covered.

            Steve glances to the left as they round the corner of a cliff, and has to look away.

            Natasha yawns, and says boredly, “How much longer?”

            The driver replies, “We are two kilometres from our destination, fraulein.”

            “Mm.” Natasha swipes at her phone, and Steve really doesn’t know how she navigates with those nails. Is she playing Candy Crush? Yes. Yes she is.

            They reach a plateau that terminates in a perilous drop, and Steve tries not to think about it. He looks instead at the facility. It looks like a factory, and seems out of place. Every other building they passed in Liechtenstein was quaint, basically hissing, _psst, tourists—come over here_. This is impersonal and modern, with no signs on the outside naming the place.

            He notes that there’s no guards outside of the facility; that’s consistent with the satellite footage.

            “Hm,” Natasha murmurs, and tosses her phone into her tiny clutch purse. They’re fairly sure that will be searched and/or confiscated on arrival, so there’s nothing in it.

            The driver takes them right up to the front door. It’s well lit, but there’s no windows. In fact, there are no windows on the entire building. Steve would worry, but it’s not like he hasn’t gone through a wall before.

            When the car parks, Steve automatically gets out, and goes to open the door for Natasha. He holds a hand down to her, and she takes it lightly as she steps out from the vehicle. She looks around with a faint pout, pulling her fur jacket closer, then walks towards the door. Steve stays two steps behind her, on her eight.

            They wait for something to happen as they approach the door. Nothing does at first, and Natasha crosses her arms, sighing loudly. They assume they’re being watched. She gestures at the door lazily. “Gerasim.”

            Steve steps forward, and pounds on the door three times with his fist.

            A panel withdraws. There’s a biometric and ocular scanner. Natasha steps up without hesitation, false fingerprints on and contacts in. She puts her hand on the scanner, leaning upwards to show her eye.

            After a moment, a soft female voice says, “Alina Budanova. Confirmed.”

            Natasha steps away, gesturing with almost exasperation for Steve to do the same. She’s treated Steve like this ever since they got to Volgograd. Like Gerasim Timoshenko is an idiot because he can’t hear or speak. Steve would really like to tell her that Alina Budanova is a terrible ableist.

            Maybe he struggles sometimes with social advances, but that’s one cause he has no issue with.

            Steve goes to the panel, having to bend down a little. He sets his hand to the scanner, and keeps his eye wide open. He knows that right now they’re a deep brown instead of their usual blue.

            The voice says, “Gerasim Timoshenko. Confirmed.” The door unseals, and Steve moves back behind Natasha.            

            They both hesitate at the sight before them. There’s a bright white room, and Paolo Cugino is waiting for them with a patient smile, in a beautifully tailored suit, a tablet clasped to his stomach. There are four guards in slim fitting tactical suits with assault rifles that Steve doesn’t recognize. They all wear slick black helmets. Not one of them have a single sliver of skin exposed.

            He hears four more guards move in behind them, not entirely sure where they came from. Power Broker Inc. definitely does not mess around.

            “Welcome to Liechtenstein, Miss Budanova,” says Cugino. Steve knows that he’s thirty two years old, graduated top of his class from the former Alma Graduate School, likes women with hair as black as his (hence Natasha’s wig), and that he’s never held a legitimate job in his life. To Steve, he looks like a renaissance portrait put in an expensive suit and stripped of a soul.

            “This is a very friendly welcome,” Natasha replies with a crooked smile.

            “You’ll forgive the precautions, but we’ve never before established business relations so quickly with prospective clients,” Cugino says, his accent soft.  

            “We heard this might be a good time to do business. We look for opportunities like this.”

            Cugino nods, his expression still professional but somehow affectionate as well. “Yes, the setback in Peru. Allow me to reassure you that this was—ah, what they say, a glitch? Nothing more. We are most eager, and able, to do business with your organization.” He looks towards the near seamless wall, and a door suddenly opens in it. A young woman, impeccably dressed and with nails almost as long as Natasha’s, emerges with a white bin. _Here we go_. “If you would be so kind as to turn over any belongings besides your clothes, please. This also includes your shoes, coats, and socks.”

            Natasha balks, but it’s not like they didn’t expect this. “I am more than happy to—comply, yes? With my phone. Perhaps even my shoes. But this—“ She touches her necklace, which matches the earrings. “I cannot remove this. It was a gift from my late father.”

            “My apologies, Miss Budanova, but we must insist. You understand, of course. I assure you, your belongings will be perfectly safe during our meeting.”

            She scowls, but drops her clutch in the bin, then begins to remove her jewelry. This was expected. They can retrieve the explosives when they leave, and even if they don’t, there’s plenty of ways to destroy a building.

            Steve strips out of his jacket, politely laying it across the woman’s arm. He takes off the watch, his shoes, his socks. The floor is cool under his feet.

            Natasha finishes by shrugging out of her fur coat, tossing it at the young woman like she’s a servant. She offers her hands, as if showing they’re empty, then puts them on her hips, emphasizing how close fitting her red dress is. “Is this sufficient?”

            “Of course,” Cugino says, and Steve is relieved that they didn’t insist on him removing the hearing aids. Even if they had, Natasha has a transmitter deep in her ear, shielded with cloaking technology.

            “Then can we continue? It feels like Noril’sk in here.”

            With a smile, Cugino gestures them forward, and all the guards retreat. “Please. Follow me.”

            As he walks, another door appears in the wall. It reveals another bright white room, except this one has a yellow ceiling, and large ottomans, also white.

            But when Steve moves through the door, he gets a sudden shot of loud feedback, then the hum he’s heard in his ears for days goes dead. He puts his hand to his head, seeing how Natasha has gone still, for just a second. The door shuts behind them.

            Cugino turns around, that placid smile still in place. “My apologies, Mr. Timoshenko. We don’t allow external electronic devices in the building.”

            Natasha turns to him, and says loudly, “Gerasim!” She says something in Russian that Steve doesn’t quite catch.

            Steve guesses that means _are you okay_ and just gives a little grimace in return. He can see from the look in her eyes that her transmitter has been knocked out too.

            Natasha pivots, saying hotly to Cugino, “My man is near _deaf_. This is unacceptable!”

            “Of course, Miss Budanova.” Cugino gestures back the way they came. “If you’d like, your car waits for you at the front door. My apologies that we could not do business at this time.”

            _Way to call our bluff_.

            “Mr. Timoshenko’s devices will of course return to normal functioning in approximately three hours. If you decide to stay.”

            Natasha frowns, crossing her arms. She taps her bare foot against the ground a few times, then says, “I am _unimpressed_. But we shall continue.”

            “Excellent,” Cugino says, as though it’s the best thing he’s heard all year. He goes to the wall, pressing against it. A section of the wall moves forward, revealing several small doors. “If you require them, you’ll find that we have slippers here—and beverages here. Please, help yourself. My associate will be with you shortly.”

            As he moves away, Natasha says, “Associate?”

            Cugino turns back with a nod. “Yes. It should not be more than five minutes.”

            “We were told we would be dealing with you.”

            “A change of plans. Again, my deepest apologies for any inconvenience.” He smiles once more, then a door opens for him, and closes, disappearing almost completely into the wall after him.

            Natasha and Steve look at one another, before Natasha goes to sit on one of the ottomans. He joins her, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Natasha keeps up the spoiled Russian princess routine, arms firmly crossed and cursing under her breath in a language Steve doesn’t understand outside of the occasional word that passes her lips.  

            He’s nowhere near worried yet. His mother always said, “We’ve done more with less.” It’s a phrase he adopted for himself. This time around, it’s definitely true. They’re only unarmed, surrounded by God knows how many guards, cut off from their handlers, in a foreign nation.

            They’ve had _considerably_ worse.

            Several minutes go by, then the door reopens. Another beautiful person steps through, young and slender, dressed to the nines. She smiles to them, holding a hand towards the door. “She’ll see you now.”

            Natasha and Steve look at one another, then get up and follow her.

 

When they see who it is they’re meeting, Steve knows Natasha is thinking the same thing he is.

            _We just landed a much bigger fish_.

            The woman walks down a small flight of stairs. She’s about 5’8”, slim but with curves in all the right places. Her long black hair has been pulled over her right shoulder, and it somehow highlights the remarkable cheekbones of her face. Her skin is raw umber, her eyes a warm brown. She’s the most stunning woman Steve has seen in a long time—the surveillance photo did her very little justice.

            “Good evening,” she says, coming down the short hallway to meet them. “I must apologize for the confusion.”

            She holds a hand out to Natasha, straight out like an American. Natasha tilts her hand down, as if she’s unused to the act.

            “Cherise Jackson,” the woman says, and her voice is faintly inflected with the south. “Everyone around here simply calls me Miss Jackson.”

            “Alina Budanova,” Natasha replies.

            Jackson lets her go, offering her hand to Steve. He takes it, heart doing an unwelcome little pitter patter at how well it fits in his. He reasons that sometimes this happens. If every villain looked like the Chitauri, life might be easier. However, sometimes villainy walks in wearing a high pencil skirt and short white blouse, looking like everything a guy could desire.

            _Them’s the breaks, Stevie_.

            He lets her go quickly, reasoning that Gerasim Timoshenko would be unused to being greeted by a business associate of his boss. Jackson gives him a slight smile, seemingly meant just for him, before stepping back.

            “On behalf of my cousin and Power Broker Inc., allow me to say how pleased I am to see this—reversal of opinion.”

            Steve has no idea what she’s talking about, and he doubts Natasha does either. But Natasha rolls with it, replying, “Opinions change.”

            “When we approached your associates last year, I thought our offer was rather generous. But Mr. Kadyrov called me an American whore, and had several things to say about my ethnicity as well.”

            _Damn it_ , Steve thinks, as Natasha shrugs. “Kadyrov is an idiot. His—idiocy, yes? Blinds him to the opportunities of business. I do not share his blindness.”

            “How is he these days? I heard he had an accident.”

            Natasha shakes her head slightly, making a negative sound. “No, it was not him who had the accident. His son, Anatoly.” Face blank, Natasha continues, “We’ll see how far science has come, replacing that jaw.”

            Jackson smirks slightly, then beckons them forwards. “Real pity. Send my regards.”

            “Of course.”

            “We’re very pleased to have the opportunity to connect with Bratva. Your competitors have all seemed very satisfied with our services.”

            As she leads them up stairs that seemingly go to nowhere, Natasha says, “So I suppose exclusivity is not available.”

            “Afraid not. We don’t concern ourselves with wars or affiliations or feuds, Miss Budanova. This is a business. I’d do business with the CIA one week, Boko Haram the next, so long as they both paid what they owed.” Jackson presses the wall at the top of the stars, and it retracts into the ceiling. She looks back over her shoulder. “Realistically, though, I’d never do business with the CIA—they couldn’t afford us.”

            Jackson guides them into another room, this one with a red ceiling and white walls. Steve has mapped out every move they’ve made since entering the installation, seeing it easily in his mind’s eye.

            There are three white chairs waiting for them, two of them facing the other. Steve waits for Natasha to be seated before sitting next to her. He has a quick glance at the room. The place seems empty save for the chairs, not even a spec of dirt.

            Jackson sits across from them, about five feet away, carefully crossing her legs at the knees and smoothing her skirt over them. She looks young for her age. Steve has read in her file that she’s forty five, but she sure as hell doesn’t look it. He remembers Sam telling him, “Black don’t crack,” and he’s glad his mask isn’t capable of blushing.

            “I imagine you have questions for me,” Jackson offers.

            “Several.”

            Jackson gestures for Natasha to speak, then folds her fingers together. “Please, be my guest, Miss Budanova.”

            “I wish to know more about your services.”

            “Which ones?”

            She keeps testing them. She isn’t stupid, by any stretch of the imagination.

            Natasha flaps a hand at Steve. “He is—strong man. I want stronger man.”

            After a second, Jackson smiles slightly. “Oh, he doesn’t seem so bad.”

            “I want stronger man,” Natasha says flatly.

            Jackson brushes some unseen particle from her skirt. “So—you’re interested in the serum.”

            “Very.”

            “How much do you know about it?”

            “Not as much as I would like,” Natasha parries.

            Jackson seems amused by that, knowing exactly what her prospective client is doing. She relaxes, and says, “It’s one hundred million per person. Half up front, half after. Survival rate is fifty percent.”

            _Jesus_. “So you are telling me not to pick someone I’m fond of,” Natasha says.

            “No, I’m afraid you don’t understand, Miss Budanova.” Jackson leans against the side of the chair. “We don’t do henchmen. We do have a separate service to connect you with freelancers. We’ve just released an app, if you’re interested. First of its kind. But we don’t transform lackeys. Whoever pays is the one who undergoes the process.”

            After a moment, Natasha says, “Ah.”

            Steve does _not_ like the sounds of that. Bad enough to have someone with a grudge and some money ordering around a guy with super strength. But when the person with the money and the chip on their shoulder is actually wielding the power themselves? Not optimal.

            “I cannot say I am pleased to hear this.”

            Jackson shrugs. “It’s the way we do things here.”

            “Why is that?”

            “Security.”

            “How so?”

            “Mm, let’s say peace of mind, then. It is non negotiable.”

            Natasha settles back in her seat, propping her head up with a single long nailed finger. She appears to be thinking. Steve keeps a steady gaze on Jackson. She’s watching Natasha, but her eyes briefly flick to Steve. She gives him a light wink.

            He drops his eyes.

            _Hopeless, Rogers. Next time, it doesn’t matter if Barton’s kid is elected president, you are not doing undercover again_.

            “I would have to know much more before considering this,” Natasha says.

            “I understand. Men are usually eager to undergo the procedure. Women are far more…prudent, before rushing into such a situation.”

            “Men,” Natasha says dismissively. “Always something to prove.”

            There’s a glimmer in Jackson’s eyes as she agrees, “ _Always_.”

            “What are the benefits?”

            “Currently, strength is three times that of an average human. Subjects can go three days without food, sleep, or water before feeling any fatigue. Speed increases in about seventy five percent of successful candidates, typically to twice that of average. Hearing and vision improve drastically, and healing—those who survive the procedure have proven _extremely_ difficult to kill.”

            “How difficult?”

            Jackson thinks a moment, then says, “About a month ago, one of our clients was at ground zero of a bomb blast courtesy of our good friends at SHIELD. Thirty people in the building, and twenty nine were basically vaporized. Our client walked out with a few scratches. Naked as the day he was born, but we make superhumans, not superclothes. And now, he’s been marked off SHIELD’s kill list, because they think nobody could have possibly survived.”

            “Are you telling me that they are—“ Natasha hisses, snapping her fingers. “This word, I—when a person cannot be hurt.”

            “Impervious?”

            “Perhaps this is the word, yes.”

            “I’m not promising immortality. I’ve got a man who walked out of a bombed building, sure. I’ve also had one fool who stood in front of a missile. The human body, no matter how enhanced, can’t withstand _everything_.” She pauses, then admits, “Well, there’s one that we know of. But we don’t have our hands on him—yet.”

            Because he knows Natasha as well as anyone, Steve detects the momentary tension in her body.

            It slips away like water, and she says, “Yet?” There’s a light tease in her voice, almost a need for gossip.

            Jackson smiles crookedly. “Do not get my colleague started on that. He’s been after Banner for over a decade. Had a near miss last month, and he’s still whining about it.” She shrugs, and says, “All in good time.”

            _Be calm_ , Steve wishes he could tell Natasha. She’s the most focused person he’s ever met, but she’s not a robot.

            Natasha smiles back, and says, “Now that is a story I would like to hear. Will we meet this—colleague?” Steve’s in awe of her, as usual. If it had been a HYDRA agent across from him, telling him about chasing Bucky, Steve would have rearranged their face. And maybe the entire room.

            “If we proceed, yes. He’ll perform the procedure. He doesn’t work from here, though. This is merely a place to…iron out the details.”

            “The matter of the…ah—mortality rate?”

            “We’re putting the human body under a tremendous amount of strain. There are those who can take it, and those who can’t. Science hasn’t advanced so far that we can determine who will survive and who won’t with complete accuracy, though that is obviously a field of research we’re very devoted to researching. Trust me, Miss Budanova, I’m aware that my sales pitch is lacking. Prospective clients don’t want to hear ‘there’s a 1 in 2 chance we’ll kill you.’”

            “This kind of thing has been done for—seventy years, yes? I do not understand why there is not more progress.”

            “Are you familiar with the Erskine experiments?” Jackson says, slightly surprised.

            _Careful_. Natasha says, “I want strong man. I do my research.”

            “The Erskine experiments are fascinating, of course. But the results were erratic. Out of the twenty people his serum was administered to, only two survived, and of those two, only one didn’t look like a monster you see on Saturday morning cartoons.”

            Steve didn’t understand what she was saying. Twenty? What the hell was she talking about, twenty?

            “And HYDRA tried, of course, but in all those decades, they had—seven successes? Out of God only knows how many. We’ve looked at their research on the topic. They were—quite skilled in some areas. As an admin, I remain completely blown away by their filing system. But in this area, they had one real success, and failed to repeat it. Even those ones from the early nineties—well, I’ve seen footage. Apparently they were completely insane. Others have pursued the same ends as PBI, but none have come as close as we have to achieving the goal. Is it a work in progress? Absolutely. I won’t deny that. But—we’re not a government agency. We work on live subjects, and that’s how we’ve managed to make such leaps in the past few years. Each time we learn more and more, perfect the procedure. We’ve brought the mortality rate down twenty percent since human trials began, and I expect to lower it another twenty over the next five years. In ten years? I think we’ll bring it to a ninety percent survival rate. That’s my hope, at least.”

            “Perhaps I want to wait ten years, then.”

            Jackson lets out a laugh, pealing like soft bells. “Of course, in ten years, our prices will have increased, and by that point, _all_ your competitors will have used our services.”

            “Yes. This is unfortunate.” Natasha pushes her hair back, and says, “I see a flaw in this.”

            “Other than the fifty percent survival rate?” Jackson replies.

            “Does it not concern you that—in ten years, there will be enough people in charge, who have changed like this? What is to prevent them from—taking what you make them pay for now? Using it on others?”

            Jackson merely shrugs. “The answer is simple. Maintenance.”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “The procedure takes place over the course of four hours. However, it’s not entirely permanent. A small dose of the serum is required every two weeks to maintain the effects. I make it clear to every one of our clients that if anyone attempts something stupid, I make a call and we dump everything. Every drop, every detail of the formula. Mutually assured destruction. Come after us, and you’ll have our entire clientele to face for it.” Jackson spreads her hands. “If people want to risk angering thirty of the world’s most dangerous people who are about to run out of their medicine, they can be my guest. I’ll be hiding in a bunker somewhere with my nearest and dearest until the dust clears and we see which continents are still left.”

            “What happens without the—maintenance?”

            “The body turns on itself. It can no longer metabolize proteins, brain damage occurs, muscles atrophy—oh, and it’s extraordinarily painful. At least until it kills you.”

            That is good news. If they destroy the stock of maintenance serum, they can cut off all of Jackson’s clients. However, it would help to have a list of them first, so they aren’t surprised when villains start to go ballistic for seemingly no reason.

            “And is it so—black and white? Life or death?”

            Jackson pauses, then tilts her head. “You’re talking about Curtiss,” she replies, the amusement leaving her voice. She actually looks a little sad.

            “As I say, I have done my research.”

            Drawing a deep breath, Jackson uncrosses her legs, and leans forward. Her hands are together, and Steve notices how she rubs her thumb across her palm. It’s a thing he does when he’s nervous. He wonders if she’s nervous too, or if she just doesn’t want to talk about it.

            “My cousin’s condition isn’t a secret. He is a very brilliant man. A visionary. But like you said—men always have something to prove. He took the serum before it was ready. Long before it was ready. It’s a miracle he didn’t die. He’s very involved in the business—I might represent his interests, but the company is his. The procedure hasn’t affected his mind, merely his physical condition. And it’s on his orders that if something goes wrong, mid procedure, we terminate the patient. That too, is non negotiable. If the process fails and death isn’t instantaneous, we will not allow anyone to suffer the same pain that Curtiss has.”

            “Should that not be up to me? If I choose to do this, and I decide I’d rather be alive and sick instead of dead, why can I not choose this?”

            “Because this company has a reputation to protect. People are far more likely to give us a chance if things _are_ black and white. When given the possibility that they’ll live or die, simple as that, they assume they’ll survive the procedure. But tell them that they live, they die, or they will become incapacitated—“ Her voice softens. “Stripped of all agency, of dignity, helpless in the hands of others—people are far less likely to take the leap.”

            Natasha frowns slightly, and she says, “If I was to do this—I would want to speak to your employer.”

            “My cousin doesn’t do in person meets.” Jackson raises her shoulders. “But, if you like, we could call him right now, see if he’s able to talk.”

            “If it would not be inconvenience.”

            Jackson withdraws a small square from a pocket Steve hadn’t even seen. Everything about this building is unnervingly neat and clean and antiseptic. He likes things to be orderly, but still, he’d go crazy in a place like this. “I’m afraid I’ll have to warn you. My cousin’s appearance is alarming to people. And when I left him earlier, he wasn’t having a good day. Sometimes the pain is more than manageable.”

            She clicks the square at the wall, and a 3D screen pops up. The screen reads ‘Curtiss Jackson…Calling.’ The last word blinks on and off.

            When the screen changes, Steve has a real sense of déjà vu. He felt like this when the Red Skull ripped off his own face, trying to understand that this person was human and not at the same time.

            They are looking at a heaving mass of muscle and brown skin and veins, mouth open and panting, eyes squeezed shut. Even now, Steve can’t help but pity the man.

            Jackson gets to her feet, concern written across her face. “Curtiss?” she says, walking over to the screen. “Curtiss, it’s me. I’m with clients. Can you talk right now?”

            Through gritted teeth, the poor wretch hisses, “Hurts. Cherise—hurts.”

            “Where’s Karl? Tell the aide to get Karl.” The Power Broker whimpers, and Jackson moves closer. “I’ll call you later, after the meeting.”

            “Please—extend my apologies,” The Power Broker says. He opens his eyes. He and his cousin have the same warm brown eyes. He looks to her with misery, and almost longing.

            “Of course. I’ll be on the first flight. Take care.”

            She turns off the screen, and for a moment, just stands there. She looks smaller, more vulnerable.

            Then Steve remembers that this woman is definitely aware of what was going on in Paraguay. Appearances are deceptive. She might be gorgeous, and she might look like a regular person, but she’s just as much a monster as her cousin.

            When Jackson turns around, her smile is back in place. “Our apologies. But that, you see, is why the options are success—or termination.” She slips the square back into her pocket, returning to her seat.

            Natasha says cautiously, “I will—need to consider this most carefully.”

            “I’d hope that you would. We’re not offering easy answers at PBI. We offer power. But power always comes at a very steep price.”

            “So—even if you kill me, you keep my fifty million.”

            “I promise, Miss Budanova, it will go to a very good cause.”

            “Such as?”

            “Oh—orphans or buying elections or something like that.” She laughs, smoothing her hair over her shoulder. Jackson looks them both over, and asks, “Have you eaten yet?”

            “Mm, yes, on the jet.”

            “That’s probably for the best. Once I take people through the rest of the facility, they tend to be a tad green around the gills, and turn down my offer of a late dinner.” She takes a deep breath, giving them a thousand watt smile. “Would you like to take the rest of the tour now? I’d be happy to show you the inner workings of our little operation. A show of good faith, between new business partners.”

            “This sounds agreeable, yes.”

            Steve waits for the women to get up, then rises. Jackson says to Natasha conspiratorially, “He’s well trained.”

            “They’re like dogs. Treats and repetition. It is not so hard.”               

            Jackson just laughs that low, beautiful laugh.

 

Jackson walks them down empty halls, doors appearing and disappearing, and Steve can tell that they’re moving towards the center of the building. Jackson’s keeping up small talk with Natasha, asking her about her dress.

            Steve is listening for anything. But the place is impeccably soundproofed. He can’t so much as hear another person in the building.

            “You really must do Paris next year, though,” Jackson says to Natasha, lightly touching her arm. “Honestly, we might be talking about brute strength here, but do you know what real power is?”

            “What is that?”

            Jackson leans towards Natasha and chuckles, “Telling Kanye to shut his fool mouth, and actually have him do it.” They both laugh.

            Steve has no idea what the reference means, so he continues his stoic Russian act. Without his jacket, his arms are bared, showing off his tattoos. After a few days, they’ve faded to the point where they look a few decades old. He really wishes he could keep them. He knows the meaning of each one, and he’s well aware that they tell the story of a psychopath, but the tattoos that he chose would be different.

            He’d get the Howling Commandos insignia. He’d get a red star on his upper left arm. And he’d get the old Brooklyn skyline inked across his back.

            _Smoking, tattoos—it’s almost like you want to be a rebel, Stevie_.

            Steve frowns, looking down at Natasha’s bare feet. He tries to imagine her fighting in slippers, and the image is enough to almost prompt a smile. He keeps a lid on that.

            Jackson comes up short as they turn down a long bright hallway. With a little furrow between her brows, she pulls that small square from her pocket again, glancing at it. She lifts her other hand. “I’m sorry, I need just a moment, please.”

            Natasha tilts her head. “Very well.” Jackson walks away from them, down the hall, playing with the square.

            Steve and Natasha look at one another, and he thinks they have the fastest silent conversation two people without telepathic powers could possibly have.

            _She’s the target._

_We’ll use her to get to the Power Broker._

_Obviously._

_Get our things then come back for her?_

_Risky._

Natasha almost rolls her eyes, like, _we’re already here_.

            Suddenly, the hallway begins to dismantle around them. Without thinking about it, Steve puts an arm around Natasha, pushing her behind him and up against his side as the walls retract into the floor and the ceiling lifts, revealing an almost completely different world around them.

            They’re in a large grey warehouse. The only sign of the clean facility they had been in is the white strip of floor that Jackson is still striding away on. The silence has filled with the breathing and clinking and movements of dozens of people.

            They all stop at the sight of the newcomers. There are rows of tables, and much like in Paraguay, they’re processing chemicals. Unlike Paraguay, they’re all adults. They’re stripped down to their underwear, some bruised and bloodied, all with the same hopeless expression on their faces.

            And above them, a walkway circles the entire room. It’s filled with guards in those black suits and helmets, standing shoulder to shoulder, all of them with guns pointed either at Steve and Natasha or the workers.

            Jackson turns around, slipping the square back into her pocket. The friendliness is still on her face, but it’s accompanied by something predatory.

            “So—Miss Romanoff. Mr. Rogers. Much as I’ve enjoyed this little circle jerk, I need you to remove your masks. And those preposterous wigs. Contacts too. I hear you both have very pretty eyes.”  

            “What is this?” Natasha says, holding to her cover.

            Jackson crosses her arms, tapping her index finger. She shrugs lazily, and says, “Fine. If you don’t want to behave, we’ll just—“ She looks around, then snaps her fingers to her left. “Gentlemen? Those five at the back there. At the end. On my mark.”

            She looks back at them, and Steve sees that she means it.

            Natasha does too, because she raises her hands. She slips her thumb under her mask, pulling it and the wig off in one go. Steve follows her lead, letting his false identity drop to the ground. He plucks out the contacts, flicking them away.

            Jackson’s smile widens. “ _There_ you are. And just as pretty as I’d heard you were. Curtiss has been all aflutter about that hair of yours, Miss Romanoff. Some people are just crazy for redheads, aren’t they.”

            “So?” Natasha says, and in a weird way, Steve’s kind of relieved. He’s missed her voice. “What’s the play?”

            “Sweetheart, what do you think it is? The second Paraguay happened, do you not think every one of our installations was warned that a petite woman, possibly Russian, and a man the size of a small elephant would try and infiltrate? Fury has been relying on his shadow Avengers far too often. Did you think _no one_ noticed?”

            “One can always hope,” Steve replies.

            “Ah, the mute. I wondered when you’d join us.” Jackson slips her hands into her pockets, eyeing them, almost amused. “So what was the plan? Get into the building, get a sample of what we’re cooking, kidnap one of us for more information, then level the place?” Natasha and Steve don’t answer, so Jackson says, “My mother didn’t raise no fools, children. Do you think _any_ of our locations aren’t stocked to the brim with those?” She nods towards the frightened looking, barely clothed workers.

            “You mean slaves?” Steve retorts.

            Jackson just says, “Hey, it’s good enough for our founding fathers, Captain America, it’s good enough for me.” She grins at what he knows must be fury on his face. She walks in a slow circle, taking in what’s happening around her. “Now—I’m sure you have an exit team waiting for you, but it must be fairly small. That’s how your outfit runs. Don’t want the world seeing what SHIELD does in the dark. Certainly don’t want Black Widow and Captain America blowing up three dozen poor defenseless Syrian refugees on the evening news.”

            “This—“ Steve spits out. “Is sick.”

            “Honey, this is just commerce. Why would I pay some entitled European an exorbitant amount of money to keep their silence when I can just hold these people’s children hostage?” Jackson shrugs. “Don’t look so horrified, Rogers. I mean, it looks very natural on your face, but come on now—you can’t cast stones when you think about how many people have died to keep your sorry skin on your body.” Jackson scuffs at something on the ground, looking at them askance. “Now, that exit team. I’m guessing—two people. They’re running your operation on a shoe string budget, and SHIELD wants maximum deniability. So what we’re saying here is that I really only need to kill three people tonight. The three are a foregone conclusion. But—your behavior will determine whether I just liquidate the whole thing and start over.”

            Steve glances around, looking for something he can use as a weapon. All he sees are pleading, broken eyes.

            There is a dissonance between action and reaction. He is a man of action, but these people—Christ, these poor people.

            Natasha, of course, is more use. “Please—now that you know SHIELD is aware of this place, you’ll strip the whole thing top to bottom yourself. Nothing we can do about that.”

            Jackson points to her left and says, “Mark.”

            Five gunshots ring out, and five bodies fall to the floor. Steve’s stomach lurches. There’s muffled cries, but no one dares move. They’ve been here long enough to know what will happen to them if they do.

            Jackson’s eyes haven’t left them. “Oh, go on. Do you want to watch my people do them all? If so, I encourage you to try and call my bluff. You’ll learn soon enough—I don’t bluff. I negotiate.”

            Steve says, “So what does negotiation look like?”

            “It looks like the two of you being very, very good. Miss Romanoff, you’ll go with the team that’s about to enter on your left, and Mr. Rogers, you’ll go with the team to your right. You will follow their instructions. One of two outcomes will occur, depending on your actions. Option one—you disregard instructions and all of these people will be killed. Immediately. Option two. Do as you’re told, and I’ll leave them outside when we withdraw.”

            “They’ll freeze to death,” Steve says.

            Jackson raises an eyebrow. She holds up three fingers. “One—“ She folds her ring finger down. “Two—“

            “We’ll cooperate,” Natasha says.

            “Excellent,” Jackson responds, having seen that coming from a mile away. “Miss Romanoff, if you would put some space between yourself and Mr. Rogers.”

            Natasha glances at him, then they move about ten feet apart. Steve can hear doors opening, and many boots on the ground.

            “Don’t look so distressed, Mr. Rogers,” Jackson smiles at him. “Miss Romanoff’s going to see my cousin. You can both comfort yourself by thinking about how maybe she’ll escape our clutches and somehow kill him. It’ll make the flight a little less dull.” Clapping her hands together, she steps back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch. You kids be good.”

            Someone grabs Steve’s arms, pulling them down behind his back. He grimaces as they’re cuffed. Whatever they’re using is thick and heavy. These people deal in making enhanced for a living. God knows they probably have the gear to keep them confined.

            Jackson stops at the last second, and says offhandedly to the guards escorting Romanoff, “Oh—just a thought—do what you want to the body, but leave the hair alone. Curtiss keeps going on about it.” She walks away, tossing over her shoulder, “I’m assuming he’s going to want to keep the scalp.”

            Steve’s blood runs cold, and for a moment he begins straining against his cuffs. But above him, he hears people repositioning their weapons.

            _Son of a bitch_.

            He catches Natasha’s eyes in her own crowd of about eight men. “We get home,” she calls to him, “I’ll tell you a story where I took on twice as many guys. In Baghdad.”

            “Hold you to it,” Steve answers with a little smile, before she’s hustled out a door.

            He’s shoved towards another exit, and he looks over the bleak, large room before leaving. There’s the last of Jackson as she disappears, and all the wide eyed people left behind him, begging for him to do something.

            And he wants to.

            But sometimes, the only way to save someone is to do nothing at all.

 

It could definitely be worse.

            He took on as many people in an elevator once, a magnetized cuff on his hand and Rumlow coming at him with those damned electric sticks while somehow claiming it wasn’t personal. Then he’d jumped out of the elevator and fallen through the roof of the Triskelion’s lobby.

            So—twelve guards in a well-lit hallway? He isn’t exactly worried.

            Of course, having his hands behind his back makes things slightly more complex, but what the hell. Steve likes a challenge. That and people tend to make dents in the wall when he kicks them.

            He rolls his shoulders, and someone says behind him, in a voice that is both female and male at once, electronically filtered, “Don’t get any ideas.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

            He has the layout of the place memorized. They’re coming to the eastern side of the facility, not too far from the front door. Once he shakes them off and he has a weapon, that’s the way he’ll go. Straight out the way he came. At least he knows there’s a door there.

            _Okay, Steve. Deep breaths—relax the muscles for a second—the guard on your ten first, and then you’ll_ —

            Before he can do a thing, shots start going off around him.

            Steve reacts. He’s good at that.

            First thing he does is jump up, swinging his cuffed hands underneath his feet and doing a backwards somersault. As he lands, he grabs the first black helmet he sees and throws the guard down the hall, knocking over two others in the process. He glances back to see what’s happened.

            Two of the guards are firing on the others. The one is near Steve’s height, the other is tiny, probably female. Whoever they are, they’re on his side, at least for now.

            Another guard spins to fire on the turncoats. Steve grabs his rifle and slams it back through the guy’s helmet, shattering it. The man crumbles to the ground, and Steve dodges a spray of bullets by his head. He barrels across the hall, using his sheer body mass to crush the offender against the wall.

            It dents, of course.

            As the last of the bullets crack out, Steve grabs the sidearm off the guard he just plowed into, then takes aim at the two who fired on the rest. They’re the only ones left standing.

            Immediately, they lower their weapons. They both put their hands to the sides of their helmets, and one of them, Steve doesn’t know which, says in that strange male and female voice, “Sir, we’re your backup.”

            “On whose authority?”

            “Nick Fury’s.”

            He demands, “What’s my exit code?”

            Without skipping a beat, one of them answers, “031017, sir. Agent Fury wanted me to express again his desire for you to pick something less sentimental.”

            Steve lowers his weapon, heart beat slowing. “Why wasn’t I told about—“ He stops himself, rolling his eyes. “Forget I said that. It’s Fury.”

            “Sir, our instructions are to get you to the secondary exit point.”

            “The mission—“

            “Under control, sir. We have to move.”

            “Romanoff—“

            “Has already been extracted by the rest of the team. Sir, we really do have to leave.”

            Steve nods, then lifts his hands. “Don’t suppose one of you can help me with these?”

            The smaller one takes up position with their rifle as the taller one steps forward, whipping out something small and metallic. He puts it to the cuffs, and it punches down through the metal. They snap off, a red hot hole through the middle.

            “I’ll take point,” Steve says.

            “You’ll stay between me and my teammate,” the man replies. “You don’t have your shield, and you present a large target.” Before Steve can argue, the man picks up one of the assault rifles and pushes it into his hand, then moves in front of Steve.

            Steve’s not fond of that. He usually makes the calls on the field. But the man’s already moving, and the smaller one—female, Steve thinks—gives him a hard nudge from behind.

            So Steve shuts up and goes with them.

           

They silently pass through two hallways before Steve hears something coming alongside them. The other two don’t hear it because they don’t have his hearing.

            So he slams a hand through the wall, grabbing the collar of the guard on the other side, and rips him clear through. Then Steve sends him right back the way he came, hearing snapping bone.

            The agent in front is looking at him. Steve smirks, “And helpless me, without my shield.”

            Without a word, the agent continues on, his rifle to his shoulder.

            When they come through the entry to the lobby, all hell breaks loose. Cugino is there, half out the front door, with what looks like a small army. Eyes widening, he yells, “They’re _here_ —“

            The smaller agent slips under Steve’s arm and shoots Cugino square between the eyes.

            All of a sudden, it’s a firefight, and there’s nothing to hide behind. Steve uses the best weapon he’s got, which is his body. He throws himself into the crowd, hands snagging onto weapons and clothes and just throwing people higgledy piggledy.

            He feels a graze of a bullet, but the adrenaline helps him ignore that, and he’s never cared too much about his personal safety, not from the day he was born. For one second, he has the giddy thought of: _Steve, SMASH,_ and knows he probably looks deranged, smiling at that in the middle of this melee. He flings a guy upwards so violently that he lodges in the ceiling, then spins around and hooks his fingers under another’s helmet, throwing them out into the snow.

            He watches the car they came here in abruptly back up and drive away. He’s a little amazed that the driver stuck around so long.

            Steve throws himself back at the last second, barely missing a knife that goes flying by his face. It sticks in a helmet, and the last of the standing guards wavers for a moment, then falls forward.

            The smaller agent strides forward, collecting their knife from the dead man’s helmet, and wipes it off on the body before slipping it back into their tactical belt. They pick up a rifle, tossing it into Steve’s hands. The other agent is already at the door, crouched and surveying the outdoors.

            “Clear,” the agent says in that two gendered voice, and the smaller agent walks past, rifle up. The agent nods Steve outwards. “Between us, sir.”

            Steve follows, hissing as soon as he steps outside. The body heat from the fight made him forget for a moment that he was without a jacket or shoes. Shrugging it off, he mutters, “Guess I survived 67 years in the ice. Can’t really complain about this.” He checks the rifle the smaller agent gave him. The magazine is half full, but there’s blood on it.

            _You’re getting squeamish after you just put multiple people through drywall_?

            “The secondary exit point?” Steve asks, as they walk towards the edge of the cliff.

            “Hold.”

            They all stop. Steve looks out at the view. He guesses it would be pretty enough, if he didn’t hate the goddamn Alps.

            The smaller agent straps the rifle across their back. They move back a few steps, then to Steve’s sudden and absolute horror, take a running start before leaping off the cliff, into the darkness below.

            Mouth open, feet very cold, shivers starting to set in, Steve can’t move. He’s sure the other agent is judging him right now, but to hell with it. Steve’s been around a lot longer than SHIELD has.

            “This will probably sound ridiculous, but I have a minor complaint about our exit point.”

            “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t your exit point.”

            Steve turns around, saying, “Sorry?”

            The agent shrugs. “Your ride should be here in a few minutes.” He reaches up, snapping the helmet loose, then pulls it off. Raising a brow, he says, “But seriously, Steve—I’m a hundred years old. You cannot expect me to keep rescuing you every time you do something stupid.”

            Never mind jumping off the cliff. Steve thinks the earth just opened up to swallow him.

            He can’t do anything. Can’t speak, can’t blink—can’t breathe, Jesus, he can’t breathe—

            Considering him a moment, Bucky furrows his brows. “Oh—tactical error. I should have waited for you to put down the rifle before taking off the helmet. Sorry, it’s been a long day. If you’re going to shoot me—“

            Steve throws the rifle aside, not looking to see that it flies about forty feet, and runs the short distance between them. He doesn’t even register the apprehension on Bucky’s face before he’s picked him clear up off the ground, and holds him so tight that he can’t even keep his balance for a moment.

            _You, it’s you, it’s you_ , Steve thinks over and over again, unsure why his mouth isn’t following suit.

            He spins with his own momentum, crushing Bucky against him. He hears Bucky’s startled exhale, and he doesn’t care if he’s not supposed to do this, if he’s making a fool of himself, he doesn’t care, because it’s Bucky, _his_ Bucky—

            Bucky pulls his rifle out from where it’s pinned between the two of them, tossing it over Steve’s shoulder. “Good grief,” he mutters, “I don’t know that I like _this_.”

            “I don’t fucking _care_ ,” Steve says fiercely.

            “Listen to the mouth on you, Rogers—okay, Steve, you gotta put me down, the altitude is pretty thin up here.”

            Steve drops him abruptly, Bucky staggering, but Steve’s already grabbed him by the arms, wanting to study every inch of him.

            He looks good. No, he looks amazing. Eyes grey in the night, a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw. Hair a little rumpled from being under the helmet, but still short, which is how Steve likes it. And he can’t believe it, but there’s the faintest smile around his eyes. It’s not just Bucky, it’s his Bucky, that’s what makes him _him_ , that look on his face like he knows something you don’t.

            Steve grabs him by the front of his jacket, demanding, “Where the hell have you been?”

            Cautious, Bucky asks, “So you’re not going to shoot me?”

            “Why would I shoot you?” Steve yelps, confused.

            “Uh—last time we saw one another I punctured one of your kidneys. I heard you were technically dead, twice.”

            “I could _kill_ you,” Steve says, wanting to rattle him senseless.

            “Yeah, Steve, that’s what I’m worried about.”

            Steve shakes him lightly, face starting to crumple. “Where have you been?” he whispers. “Where the _hell_ have you been?”

            Softening, Bucky says, “Aw—Stevie, don’t do that. You know I’m a sucker for those baby blues.” He suddenly looks at his watch, and curses in Russian. Steve’s heard it from Natasha and Clint enough time to recognize it. “And unfortunately, I am on one hell of a deadline, so we’re gonna have to cut this short.”

            Eyes widening, Steve says, “The _hell_ we are—“

            “Steve, hey—“ Bucky points back at the building. “Remember that thing there?”

            Steve glances at the installation, and lets him go. “I literally failed every single objective.” He looks back to Bucky, concerned. “Natasha?”

            Bucky shrugs. “She’s already on her way to rendezvous with your original exit team. She should be coming to pick you up in about ten minutes.”

            Steve starts returning to the facility. “I have to get back in there—“

            Bucky grabs him by the shirt, yanking him back. “You have to what?” he says in disbelief.

            Steve says, “The place is filled with slave labour, we have to get them—“

            “What, you mean them?”

            Steve looks over his shoulder. Dozens of people are fleeing the building in their underwear, crying out at the coldness of the snow, but running for their lives.

            “I still need to—“ Steve shakes his head at Bucky. “The serum, I have to—“

            Bucky holds up a tan coloured vial. “This?” He puts it into Steve’s palm. “Anything else?”

            “We haven’t even set the charges—“

            It’s at that moment the building explodes.

            Steve puts his hand up, shielding himself from the bright light. But they’re well out of the debris radius.

            He turns to Bucky, who’s watching the place burn with his hands in his pockets. “Next, say that you need a billion dollars, because you’re batting a thousand right now, Stevie.”

            Unimpressed, Steve says, “What is this, anything you can do I can do better?”

            Bucky shakes his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Bucky Barnes is already known as the guy who stabbed Captain America. I don’t need to be known as the guy who shattered his ego too.”

            He turns, walking backwards towards the cliff. Steve says, “What are you doing?”

            “I’m looking at you. What do you think I’m doing?”

            “I think you’re about to leave again,” Steve says, starting to panic.

            “Beauty and brains. Judges, give that man a perfect 10.”

            “Don’t you dare, Buck. Don’t you goddamn dare—“

            “You never wished me a happy birthday.”

            Steve pleads, “Don’t. Whatever you’re about to do, I’m begging you, Buck, don’t—“

            “Already done, sweetheart. Sorry.”

            Steve steps forward, and goes very abruptly to his knees. His vision doubles, and he gasps. “What did you—what did—“

            “They didn’t make supersoldier serum in there. That’s another place. Tell Fury to send a full team when they figure out where it is. I’m not saving you next time you do something this moronic. Hopefully SHIELD’s not stupid enough to underestimate Cherise Jackson again, or her crazy cousin.”

            Getting dizzy, Steve paws at the snow, trying to at least shuffle forward. “Bucky,” he whispers, “don’t leave…m’again.”

            Sympathetic, Bucky smiles. “A hundred years old. Less than a year, and you will be too.” He suddenly grins, and says, “Bet you wished you’d at least winged me to slow me down, don’t you.”

            He turns and leaps off the cliff.

            Steve’s breath seizes in his throat. He’s woozy, barely able to keep his head up. His heart can only quicken as he thinks, _not again. This can’t be happening again._

            But then Bucky is hovering in the air. He’s on some sort of open craft, with two other people, both of them dressed as PBI guards. Bucky holds onto the railings, leaning over the side, and studies Steve a moment.

            “You see Pigeon, tell him I say hi. And that girlfriend of his is _way_ out of his league.” Eyes softening, Bucky sighs. “I missed you something awful. To the point where I couldn’t let the last time you saw me be Brooklyn. Except we both know we’re better apart, don’t we.”

            Steve wants to say _the hell we are_ , but his mouth won’t obey.

            “Too goddamn dangerous together, you and I. I’m glad you’re back with your friends. They’ll take care of you. Better than I ever could. But don’t think that you’re not always my best guy, okay?”

            Steve mouths, _please_.

            Sad, Bucky sits down on the side of the craft, legs dangling over the side. “Take care of yourself.” He starts to turn, then thinks of something, and grins at Steve. “You’ll never believe it. I’m still so pissed about the Dodgers that I cheer for the Sox now.” He puts his arms over the lower railings, resting his chin on them. “So I know you’ll never forgive me.”

            He taps the back of the leg at the person at the helm, and the craft moves away. Steve doesn’t believe this is happening again. Not _again_ , it can’t.

            Only it is. Bucky puts up a hand, waving goodbye, and Steve moans, before dropping onto the snow.

            Before he passes out, he remembers how much he hates this place.


	8. Monster in a Box

Steve stands outside the fence. Dozens of faces stare back at him.

            The snow’s coming down, and he’s cold, and he knows he has to get them out. They’re emaciated, they’re barely on their feet, and he has to save them. If he doesn’t, they’ll die.

            _No,_ he remembers, _they’re already dead_.

            They died years ago. Years and years and years, but they’re standing here, staring at him, waiting for him to save them.

            “I told you to go,” one of them says.

            Steve startles, and goes to him. “I can’t,” he says, gazing helplessly into grey eyes.

            Outraged, Bucky slams his hands against the barbed wire fence and screams, “I told you to go!”

            His skin turns yellow.

 

Hospital. Steve knows it before he’s even fully awake.

            This isn’t how he usually wakes up from a bad dream. It’s always a hard jolt, ice water to the face to snap him from one reality to another. Now he’s struggling to the surface, or breathing cotton. Whatever it is, he hates it.

            Steve fights against it. He listens to whatever’s happening around him—beeping. He’s on monitors. There’s something in his arm. IV. Something constricting the end of his finger.

            He can’t hear anyone else in the room. Good.

            _He lied to me_.

            The anger is all Steve needs to claw his way back to consciousness. He opens his eyes, and the white cleanliness of the room makes his stomach turn. He’s seen enough of that for a lifetime.

            Steve lifts his head, taking in his surroundings. Big open windows lets him see out into the hallway. He knows this place. Jesus. They’ve got him in the main facility, where all the willing puppets work. Must be serious, if they’ve dared to bring him up into the light.

            Steve yanks the IV out of his arm, tossing it aside, and throws off the heart monitor. He yanks back the sheets, glad to see they’ve got him in scrubs instead of a hospital johnny. Not that he cares right now. He’d leave this place with his super soldier ass hanging in the breeze. He has a mission, and he’s going to complete it.

            There are two guards outside. The one opens the door, and says, “Sir, please stay in—“

            Steve’s already on his feet, flexing his body to see where it hurts. Nowhere. He just feels something dragging on his consciousness. He’s been drugged.

            _Yeah, no kidding, Bucky dropped you like a rhinoceros_.

            “I’m leaving,” Steve says, turning to the door.

            The two kids look at one another. They both have something that looks like a plastic toy gun, and Steve doesn’t know what it does, but he’s not going to give either of them the chance to let him find out.

            The kids look horrified, and the woman says, “Sir, our orders are—“

            Steve steps closer to them, and they both put their hands on their weapons. “Let me be perfectly clear,” Steve says, leaning down to speak directly into the woman’s face. “I am going to Fury’s office. If anyone tries to stop me or slow me down in any way, they’re not going to walk right for the rest of their natural lives. Is that unclear, ma’am?”

            She stands her ground, but says after a second, “No sir.”

            “Good. Now get out of my way.”

            She steps aside and Steve walks out the door.

            It’s a five minute walk from the infirmary to Fury’s office—his real office—but Steve’s walking fast, his heart pounding in his ears. He hears a voice overhead say calmly, “Code July. All personnel are to remain off primary walkways. Repeat: Code July.”

            Steve’s hands have made fists, and his teeth have clenched tight. He has one objective, and that’s to get the truth. For once, for one goddamn time, he is going to get the truth out of that man, even if it kills them both.

            Literally.

            No one is on the promenade, and he hears doors locking. He’s aware of eyes looking out at him, and guns pointing in his direction, but Steve doesn’t slow. Not for a second.

            _Unofficially, my ass_ , Steve thinks, taking the flight of stairs in three quick steps.

            Fury’s assistant is at his desk, tranquilizer rifle up against his shoulder, eyes impassively watching Steve. “Save it,” Steve mutters, and slams through the door.

            When he finds Fury, Steve actually sees red for a moment.

            Fury’s sitting behind a long black desk. The place is almost as empty as his office in the other compound, but this one has real windows and is clean and almost radiates power. Again, Steve thinks of the king in his kingdom, and he doesn’t know what keeps him from exploding right then and there.

            Leaning back in his seat, hands out of sight, Fury says calmly, “I heard you wanted to speak to me.”

            It takes every measure of control Steve possesses to speak without screaming. “Where is he?”

            “Who?”

            Steve’s acted before he can even think about it. He grabs the chair in front of the desk and throws it at the wall. It sails right through it, as if it were paper, though wires start to spark inside the wall and the lights flicker.

            “Stop LYING to me!”

            Fury’s sitting up now, his one eye unblinking. “I’m not lying to you. I simply don’t know who you mean.”

            “The hell you don’t! This whole time, you’ve known exactly where he is and—“

            “Are we talking about James Barnes—“

            Steve takes one murderous step towards the desk, and has to stop himself. He shuts his eyes tight, and counts to three. Bucky always told him to count to three.

            “Are you telling me that Barnes was responsible for what happened in Liechtenstein?”

            One…two…three.

            Steve opens his eyes and seethes, “I swear to God, Nick—I swear on my mother, I swear on my mother and father’s graves, if you don’t tell me the truth, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I really don’t, and I think we should _both_ be very, very concerned about that.”

            “Oh, I am concerned. If you’re telling me that Barnes was involved in Liechtenstein, it’s news to me—“     

            “Nick—“

            “You’ve been unconscious for nearly twenty four hours. Natasha escaped after one of the guards took out the rest, and told her where to find you. We’ve had no idea what happened.”

            “He said he was working for you.”

            “He most certainly is not—“   

            “He knew my exit code! He knew more about the mission than I did!”

            Fury pauses, then says, “Well. That’s troublesome.”

            “Troublesome?” Steve echoes in disbelief.

            Fury shakes his head. “Steve—the last time I was within a block of Barnes—that I’m aware of—was DC. I’ve never even spoken to the man.”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            “Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you do. What worries me is that Barnes has access to SHIELD’s internal systems—to black ops—“

            “I don’t believe you,” Steve repeats, shaking his head.

            Fury leans forward, and says, “Steve! Get your head on straight—maybe to you he’s a lost kitten, but to the rest of us, he’s an assassin who’s likely still in the business, and he’s accessed black ops from one of the world’s most secure servers. I don’t have the time for your personal issues right now—“

            Steve brings his fists down on the desk.

            It cracks in half, splintering on both sides. Fury’s shoved himself back, shotgun in his hands. He pumps it and aims it right at Steve’s torso.

            Steve falls back, shocked by himself. He doesn’t lose his temper. He doesn’t. That’s not who he is. It isn’t.

            Oh God. What have these people turned him into?

            He turns away, covering his face with both hands. His heart isn’t pounding, it’s stuttering, and he can’t stand it. He doesn’t want to be this. _Please, God, I don’t want to be this_.

            “You’ll take a week after your debrief,” Fury says, as if he isn’t still holding a shotgun on him. “Go back to the infirmary, stay the night. Come in for 08:00 at the usual place, then take a few days to work yourself out. This—is a one time thing. Next time, I shoot you.”

            Steve can’t move. He feels like he’s hanging on by a thread, and he doesn’t know what happens if it snaps.

            “Steve. I need you to go now.”

            He turns and goes back to the door. He hits it so hard that it flies off and strikes the opposite wall.

            The action shocks and disgusts him. He’s out of control. He’s completely gone around the bend, and he knows it. Horrified, Steve jogs out of the office without even looking where he’s going.

            Two seconds later, he runs right _through_ someone.

            Steve comes up short, gasping. He turns, blinking.

            Vision looks transparent for a moment, before going solid again. He tilts his head in concern, and says, “Mr. Rogers.”

            “Jesus,” Steve says, sick with himself. If it had been anyone else, he would have killed them. He knows it. Just shattered them, because that’s what he is. Another blunt instrument, a grunt, battle fodder, only he can’t be broken.

            Concerned, Vision asks, “You’re distressed. Can I—“

            Steve’s running away before Vision can finish speaking.

 

He doesn’t care if anyone sees him. It might be over a year since he was welcome in this place, but he still knows it. He makes his way down to the basement, to where he knows they must still have it. The other guy’s been gone longer than he has, but SHIELD doesn’t just get rid of these things.

            He pictures SHIELD with all its tentacles, and he wants to throw up.

            Steve passes a small group of agents who quickly sweep out of his way, and strides down the hallway. His brain is on fire. He doesn’t believe Nick and he does. He doesn’t know what he believes.

            Steve goes up to the door with its biometric scanner, and figures it’s worth a shot, though he knows SHIELD has scrubbed his access to everything on the main compound. He’ll pretend like it will work, and then he’ll just punch his way through.

            He puts his hand on the scanner, and a moment passes. He’s surprised when it identifies, “Steve Rogers.” Then it turns red, and says, “Access denied.”

            Yeah, he figured.

            But just as he’s pulling his fist back to smash the scanner through the wall, the screen returns to blue, and says, “Access granted.”

            The door opens. Steve’s not an idiot. Whoever let him in knows where he wants to be. They’re probably relieved that he’s doing this to himself.

            Steve strides in, the door closing behind him, and he looks at the confinement capsule as the lights come on. This one was built with Banner’s input, though he said, a little amused, “If you think you can get the other guy _in_ there, then sure, what the hell.”

            Steve walks over to the control panel, opening the capsule. He puts a timer on it. Ten minutes. If they want to keep him in there, they’re welcome to it. Steve doesn’t care right now.

            He steps inside the capsule, and the door shuts behind him with a resounding lock.

            A round prison. Impenetrable. Windows all around so people can look in at the freak.

            Steve walks to the other side, as far from the door as possible. Putting his hands to the glass, he leans forward, and tries to think.

            _He left me_.

            His fist punches into the wall so hard he feels the tingle all the way up to his shoulder.

            _Again, he left me again, he was right there and I lost him, again—_

Steve starts punching the walls with both hands. It’s more rewarding than a bag, because he knows that eventually the chain will break and the sand will spill with a bag. In here, his hands will break long before the wall ever does.

            Again. He’s been abandoned again. Not just abandoned, but tricked, and left behind.

            Hissing, Steve hits the glass so hard he doesn’t know how he hasn’t split his knuckles.

            He was so _stupid_. Nearly a hundred years, and Bucky is still fighting his battles for him, still doing everything better, still leaving him _behind_ —

            This time the skin splits, but Steve doesn’t care.

            He’d been right there. He’d been in Steve’s arms, he had been right in front of him, and Steve had let him get away. Just like last time. He should have known better, he should have _known_ —

            His other hand splits open too.

            Steve beats the wall with bloody fists, hating himself, _hating_ Bucky, hating everything, this whole stupid situation he’s gotten himself into that he can’t seem to escape. He could have been happy—if he hadn’t been so scared of being different, if he could have just accepted that it was okay to be small, that there was nothing wrong with weakness, of being called names—if he’d just accepted his life as it was, he could have been happy, and not _this_ , this monster in a cage—

            He starts yelling, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. It’s all just words and anger and blood. He lets himself be furious and imperfect, not this impossible paragon that everyone expects of him. That’s not him, that’s never been him.

            _This_ is Steve Rogers.

            He hits the wall so hard it cracks, and so does his knuckle. Steve falls back with an infuriated shout, then shoves his bruised, damaged hands into his hair. He drops to the ground, sitting there and trying to keep his brain inside his head.

            _He left me. Again. He left me_.

            Steve knows he won’t be able to find him. If Bucky’s working with people so good that they can infiltrate SHIELD, he’ll never be able to track him down. Bucky doesn’t want to be found.

            _People don’t leave because they want you. They leave because they don’t._

            Suddenly exhausted, Steve drops his hands into his lap. He wishes, desperately, for a way to turn back the clock. He would have gladly died at eighteen of pneumonia, instead of face the rest of his life alone. And like this.

            He sees someone’s reflection in the glass. Steve sighs. Of course. Because this wasn’t already as low as he could get.

            Steve pushes himself to his feet. His hands are throbbing. He knows that even if he’s broken more than the one knuckle—and he probably has—they’ll have healed by the time he wakes up tomorrow.

            Brushing his hair back with his arm, knowing it’s probably already bloody, Steve turns and walks back to the door. Seeing him coming, Tony unlocks it, then takes a few steps back.

            Steve pauses in the door, too drained to be embarrassed. “Well,” he says, “that was probably gratifying for you.”

            Tony’s in a grey suit without the jacket, arms crossed. He looks good, calm. “I’d be lying if I said no.” He pulls the pocket square from his vest, holding it out. Steve gazes at him, unimpressed. With an eye roll, Tony says, “Oh no, please. Just bleed everywhere. You have such a reputation to protect.”

            He waves the light blue handkerchief at Steve until Steve takes it. He ruins the thing immediately, wiping the blood off his aching hands.

            “What are you doing down here?” Steve asks tiredly.

            “Heard there was a madman going around breaking furniture and putting holes in the walls. Got all excited and thought Bruce was back.” Tony leans against the capsule, putting his hands in his pockets. “I miss the guy. No one else around here speaks genius.”

            They haven’t spoken. Not since Steve came back. The closest they came was when Steve woke up from getting stabbed, but Steve hadn’t said anything.

            He doesn’t know what the right words could possibly be.

            “Sooo,” Tony says, “how you been?”

            Steve lets out a soft laugh, and looks at him sideways. “Seriously?”

            Shrugging, Tony replies, “I see you’re trying a new look. It’s kind of a Brad Pitt ‘90s sort of thing. A little bit _Fight Club,_ little bit _Twelve Monkeys_. But especially the part where he’s in the insane asylum.”

            “You know I have no idea what any of that means, but I know it’s an insult.”

            “Well, it’s a lot easier than mentioning, ‘hey, remember that time we tried to kill each other?’”

            “I wasn’t trying to kill you, I was trying to—“

            “Keep me from killing your lifemate. Yeah. I get it.”

            Steve folds the handkerchief back into a square. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Give it back? It’s soaked in his blood. “How’s Pepper?” he asks quietly.

            “Good.”

            “So you two—“

            “Took the threat of the world ending, but yeah, she’s giving me another chance. You know, after the few dozen she’s already taken on me.”

            “I’m glad to hear about that.”

            “Sorry to hear about you and Carter.”

            Steve drops his head back. “Does—anyone around here not know every detail of my life?”

            “I heard Ilene down in accounting ask if you ever wore the suit on your own time, so there’s at least one person who still has questions.” Tony raises a brow. “I said I’ve been known to, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t. She got flustered for some reason.”

            Turning the pocket square over in his hands, Steve says, “I…appreciate that you paid attention to the message we sent from Vancouver.”

            “And keeping you out of jail. Don’t forget that.”

            “Don’t push your luck.”

            “I’ll push my luck all I like. You forget—you’re not the boss of me.”

            Exasperated, Steve says, “Well, I’m glad to see you’re still acting like a twelve year old.”

            “Please. When I was twelve, I’d already graduated from high school. You should have seen my date for prom.”

            “Lemme guess. She was a lady of the night.”

            Looking scandalized, Tony replies, “She was Shoshanna Rosenbaum, she had braces, and she was the first girl to ever break my heart. What kind of date did you bring to _your_ prom, dungeon master?”

            “We didn’t have proms.”

            “Right. You were too busy defeating the Kaiser or whatever and walking to school uphill both ways.”

            They don’t say anything for a minute. Steve isn’t comfortable, because he feels like he’s just an uncontrollable stew of emotions. And Tony—people get Tony wrong. They think that he talks all the time because he’s uncomfortable with silence. That’s not it. He’s uncomfortable with what happens in the silence. A man like that thinks so much that it must be impossible to bear. At least when he’s talking, he can share it with another person.

            Tony’s the one to break the quiet. “Fury’s telling the truth. He doesn’t know where Barnes is.”

            “And how do you know that?”

            “Because _I_ don’t know where he is.”

            Face hardening, Steve asks, “And you’ve been looking.”

            “Of course I’ve been looking.”

            “What would happen if you found him?”

            “Don’t know,” Tony says with a shrug.

            “Like hell.”

            Tony pushes himself off the wall. “Jesus, Steve—you think I feel the same way I did for ten minutes, a year and a half ago? It was a shitty situation, and I reacted. If you watched _your_ mom get murdered, and the guy who did it was right next to you, what would you have done? Would you have listened to anyone tell you that it wasn’t his fault? Would you have cared? You’re not that level headed.” Tony nods towards the bloody fist prints inside the capsule. “As you’ve ably demonstrated. Just because you never change your mind about anything doesn’t mean the rest of us have the same stick up our collective asses.”

            Shaking his head, Tony starts to walk away.

            Steve doesn’t want to admit he’s wrong. It’s always been one of his problems, and he knows it. It’s not a matter of being right. It’s just not wanting to be wrong. “If you feel different, then why have you been looking for him?”

            Tony turns around with a groan. “Why do you think, Captain Slow on the Uptake? You’re my friend, even if you are a tremendous pain in my balls. I know you’re spinning out, and I know it’s because you know he’s out there. So I looked. And I can’t find him. So it doesn’t matter. Now—“ Tony claps his hands once, then gestures to the door. “Would you _please_ go back to the infirmary so that the very talented and worried doctors can have a look at you?”

            “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve says, unable to respond to anything else Tony said.

            “No, of course not, other than Barnes injecting you with the same drugs they were manufacturing in Liechtenstein.”

            “Drugs?” Steve replies.

            “Are you still high? Cap—take it from someone who knows. You’re in the comedown phase. Moody, out of control, irritable—I mean, you might be on drugs or maybe you’re finally on the journey to becoming a man.” Tony gestures for him again. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

            “It’s not possible—my metabolism—“

            “Oh, Jesus. I will _explain_ if you stop hiding down here to self-harm. I’m going. Are you coming with?” Tony starts walking before Steve can reply.

            He grimaces, but follows.

 

“It makes sense,” Tony says. “Super drugs for super soldiers. My guess is that they’re using them to keep the clients under control.”

            “Maintenance dosage,” Steve responds.

            “Sorry?”

            “Jackson—Cherise Jackson—she said that there was the initial procedure, but that every two weeks the clients needed to take a maintenance dosage.”

            “There you go,” Tony says, opening up the door for Steve to walk through. Steve isn’t sure why he’s being so nice. He has to admit, though—Tony’s been as nice as he could be ever since Brooklyn. It’s thanks to him that he and Sam aren’t in solitary confinement on the Raft. “Keep ‘em hooked. Gotta be a hell of an incentive to keep the clientele loyal.”

            “Damn it.”

            “What now?”

            “I thought we had an advantage. Destroy the stockpile of the maintenance dosage, have all those people go back to normal. Or die, whichever one happened first.”

            “No, my guess is they’re changed for life. Just like you, _River Runs Through It._ ”

            “Tony.”

            “The hair is getting _ridiculous_.”

            “Why does everyone keep saying it like that?”

            “Maybe in the hopes that you’ll eventually listen? So anyways—whatever Barnes hit you with, it was obviously mixed with a little something else. Near as I can figure, the same kind of tranquilizer they use on the sort of mammals you only see on safari. The doctors need you so they can do some more tests. I figure he mixed the two so we could see what the effects were like on a super soldier, only you slept through the happy part and now you’re in the cranky phase. We were wondering what the hell happened to you, but as soon as I heard he was involved, I figured he’s the one who dosed you.”

            “How’d you figure that?”

            Tony pats over his own shoulder. “Because he got you right there.”

            Stabbed in the back. _Again_. Goddamn again.

            Steve sighs, and he must look really miserable, because Tony says, “Don’t take it personal.”

            “Why not?”

            “No idea, I just needed to come up with a platitude and it was the first to come to mind.”

            Steve asks hesitantly, “How’s everyone?”

            “Good. It’s pretty stable around here, actually. Thor had a hell of a time, but that’s all resolved. Uh, let’s see—Hill’s got a new girlfriend. She thinks we don’t know, but everyone knows. Rhodey’s his usual self. Heard he saw you last week.”

            “Yeah, he was clearly happy about the encounter.”

            “Well, you know, you’re only kind of responsible for him losing half the sensation in his body. Peter’s ridiculous, but the good kind of ridiculous. And yeah—things are things.”

            “What about--?”

            Tony waits a moment, then shrugs. “Gonna have to give me more to go on. I’ve got the IQ of Einstein, but I don’t read minds. Yet.”

            Steve asks, “Where’s Wanda?”

            “I think you mean _Where’s Waldo?_ That’s what those books are called. Except in England. Apparently over there it’s Wally. God only knows why.”

            “Tony.”

            “No idea. I haven’t seen Wanda in, oh—“ Tony thinks about it, and there’s no missing the private smirk on his face. “Basically forever.”

            They’re almost back at the infirmary. “Is she okay? Can you at least give me that?” 

            “Afraid I can’t.” Tony stops, nodding to the door. “All right, enough babysitting. Go be a good boy, and maybe they’ll give you a lollipop when you’ve had all your shots.” He claps Steve on the arm, and starts walking away.

            Steve stands there, and says, “Tony.”

            Stark turns, unreadable. Steve has no idea when he’ll see him next. If this is them being friends again, or if it’s just Tony getting him where Steve’s supposed to go.

            “He sedated me, but—he didn’t give me anything else. I’m not high, I’m just—mad.”

            After a moment, Tony rolls his eyes and walks away, saying, “Ain’t love _grand_.”


	9. A Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> I just wanted to send a blanket thank you out to everyone who's been reading my work. I'm still really new to this, and it's kind of insane that I'm still averaging as many hits a day as I do for typically difficult stories with spectacularly flawed protagonists. Even Red, my first story, is SO CLOSE to finally seeing a 1000 hits, and that's nuts for a story with a trans protagonist in a lesser loved ship. So I wanted to say thank you to all of you who give your time to read these stories. I'm grateful for your comments and kudos, absolutely, but it always floors me that you're willing to give me so much of your time.  
> PS. Tomorrow's chapter might be a little late. It's done, just like the whole story, but I like to give the chapters one more edit before posting, and the next one's 17000 words, for reasons that'll become apparent. I'll do my best to get it to you at a reasonable hour. Have an amazing day, friends.

It’s the first time he’s been back since January.

            He’s got his mask on, and he’s standing with the rest of the mourners. Or gawkers, whatever they are. They all look at the damaged landscape.

            They can get as close as Windsor Terrace, from the south. If they looked from Queens, they could get all the way to where Bushwick used to be. But Steve wants to be in Brooklyn proper.

            Not everything was destroyed. Not even the majority were killed. Half the city is too damaged to live in, though. Resettlement of any of the neighbourhoods is still months away. There are people eager to get home. And there are those who want to be as far from this place as possible.

            There’s a woman weeping beside him. She’s rocking back and forth. No one else is moving to comfort her.

            Steve looks out at the ruined cityscape. This is what’s left of Brooklyn. Nearly as many people died here as the number of American dead in World War Two. The worst terrorist attack in world history.

            And it’s all his fault.

            He can’t take it. He puts a hand to the woman’s back and murmurs, “Why don’t we go sit down?”

 

“Bed Stuy,” she says finally.

            Steve looks over. “Vinegar Hill,” he responds.

            They’ve sat on the bench for close to ten minutes while she cried. She looks like she’s in her fifties, black with a headful of curls, one hand full of tissues.

            “Janine,” she says, holding out her other hand.

            “Grant,” Steve replies, making sure to shake her hand very gently.

            They sit back. They’re where they can’t see the blasted skyline. Steve looks southwest, towards the park. Coming here was just asking for more punishment.

            “My son,” Janine says. “His wife. My oldest granddaughter. Their youngest made it, though.”

            “I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s all he’s got. It is literally all he’s got, unless she wants him to cut out his own heart. Right now, he wouldn’t be opposed.

            “And you?”

            Steve shakes his head. “My family was already gone. Both my parents—but this is where they were buried. Them, my grandmother—this was home.”

            “God. I didn’t even think about that. The cemeteries—“        

            She puts a hand to her forehead, and Steve leans over, pressing into her arm. “Come on. I don’t know if the world has room for all these tears.”

            “No. No, I don’t suppose it does.” Janine takes a deep, deep breath, and tosses her shoulders upwards. “I don’t know why I do this. It’s the third time I’ve been back to just _look_ , and—I don’t know why. I don’t know.”

            “This is my first time.”

            “Trust me. Don’t come back.”             Janine leans over, tossing her tissues into the trashbin. She pulls out one of those travel packs of the things, tugging out a fresh one. She keeps it in her hand, just in case, and gazes forwards, eyes red. “Why do they do these things?”

            Steve feels nauseous. “You mean…people who aren’t…like us.” He’s so sick with himself that he says, “Freaks.”

            Janine blinks, and says, “No. No, not them. I mean—what human would—do this?” She motions back over her shoulder. “What—point are we at where this is possible? The person who—killed all these people—what was he? How does a person end up that—evil? How does that happen? How in the hell are we supposed to stop that?”

            “Isn’t that what…those other people are supposed to be here for?”

            She lets out a little, humorless laugh. “What, the Avengers? Do they own the world? No—it’s our world, honey. There’s a couple of them, and there’s seven billion of the rest of us. It’s our responsibility to make sure that it doesn’t—end. And I know—I know that it’s just the law of averages. Those people, with the powers of the gods, they can’t save us all every time. We have to stand up for ourselves. But that it had to happen here—that it was _my_ babies—“ She sighs, soft and sad. “Hard to be rational sometimes.” Janine shrugs. “I don’t blame five or six people who’ve done their best. I blame the rest of us. We let it get this far. We forgot—it’s our home. This world—it’s our home. We need to keep it safe.” She meets his eyes. “We _can’t_ let this happen again.”

            Steve has no clue how to respond to that. She’s an angel, sent by the lord.

            Tilting her head, Janine asks, “But you—you blame them?”

            Steve answers honestly, “I blame them for it _all_.”

           

Steve drives home in the snow, barely in the world.

            He’s thinking about Brooklyn and Bucky and the planet and Jackson and he’s ignored every text sent to him over the last two days. His debrief took six hours, and after that he just got in his car and drove. That’s how he ended up in the city. He spent the night in a cheap hotel, and he probably had about two hours sleep. The nightmares were too bad for anything more.

            He can’t think about Brooklyn. If he does he’ll drive into a tree. The numbers are too much. He can’t bear them. They aren’t numbers, they aren’t collateral damage. They were all people, and they’re gone. Gone because someone hated him.

            _When are you ever going to think about anything? Or are you just going to keep putting one foot in front of yourself until you walk off a ledge?_

Steve feels numb. He was so angry the other day that he seems to have short circuited. Nothing seems to be working like it’s supposed to.

            Steve tries to remember another time in his life that he lost his temper like that. Nothing. He’s punched and kicked and blown up buildings, and he’s certainly been angry, but he’s never been out of control like that.

            _Haven’t you?_

He lost control, with Tony. Because of Bucky. He almost killed Tony, he knows it. He was seconds away from doing it. And he destroyed that hospital room, when he woke up in January.

            _It’s always Bucky that does you in_.

            Someone threatening Bucky, Bucky leaving—always him.

            Steve thinks about what Bucky said—that they were too dangerous together. The problem is, Steve doesn’t know if he can function away from him.

            He tried to live in the world for three years. He tried to be a good man, a strong man.

            It didn’t work. All it took was Bucky rising from the dead to change it all. He’s not either of those things—good or strong—and he knows it.

            _He left me._

            Steve gives up. It’s abrupt, and it’s not him, but he’s tired. He’s bone tired.

            No more fighting. No more Bucky. No more any of this. He’s going to go home, and he’s going to lay down, and he’s not going to get up again for anything. He’s one person, and this world has well over seven billion people. If someone wants to save it, then they’re welcome to it.

            He quits. He is done.

 

By the time he pulls the car into the garage, the doubts have already started to tug at him. _If they call you in and you say that you don’t want to work for them anymore, what happens to Sam?_

            _He’s a grown man,_ Steve thinks, parking. _He can take care of himself._

_What are you supposed to do with your life?_

_I don’t know. Right now, I don’t care_.

            _Who are you if you’re not this_?

            Steve turns off the car with a sigh. He drops his head back against the seat, sitting in the dark.

            It’s at times like this he wishes he was still religious. With all he’s seen and learned, he definitely doesn’t believe in Catholicism anymore. He doesn’t think he believes in Christianity, and maybe not even God. When he was young, and things were terrible, he could pray. He didn’t have to communicate with anyone else, he could just tell God everything that was in his heart, and sometimes he’d get an answer. He’d know what to do.

            Steve realizes now that it was just a way for him to think and work things out for himself. He wonders if it would help to go through the motions. To get down on his knees, clasp his hands, and say the words.

            He knows he can’t do it. He’s lots of things, but he’s not that much of a hypocrite.

            Stepping out of the car, Steve grabs his quartered shield, holding it under his arm. He didn’t take anything else with him on the drive. He flips the keys around his finger, then heads out of the garage, and up the stairs towards the front door.

            _Shower. Bed. And not a goddamn thing tomorrow_.

            Amen.

            Unlocking the door, Steve shuts it behind himself with his shoulder. He realizes that he’s afraid. If there’s no forwards, what is there? He’s never contemplated that before.

            It’s _terrifying_.

            He steps out of his boots, and hangs up his jacket, still holding onto his folded up shield. _Some people have teddy bears_ , he thinks.

            When he turns and sees the silhouette sitting on the couch, he’s _really_ relieved to be holding it.

            Steve instinctively flips the shield open, locking it in place, and chucks it at full strength at the intruder.

            The figure simply reaches up and grabs it out of the air.

            For a second, Steve can’t help but hope. The only other person to do that—but no. This person did it with their right hand. Not the left.

            “My apologies,” the man says, and Steve relaxes, though he’s perplexed. “I have been told repeatedly to use the door, but I thought the situation required discretion.”

            Steve says, “Vision?”

            The synthetic being sets the shield down on the coffee table. “I knew I would startle you, and for that I am sorry. However, I come with gifts from two of your friends.”

            Confused, Steve replies, “Sorry?”

            Vision lifts a large circle, then with a neat flip of the wrist tosses it across the room.

            Steve grabs it, knowing what it is before he’s even touched it. It’s not just _a_ shield. It’s _his_ shield. _The_ shield. He’s struck dumb at the sight of it, the feel of it. Swallowing, overcome at its return, he turns it over to study it in the dim light. The last time he saw it, there were gashes in it, rifts through the star.

            It has been fixed, and repainted.

            Remembering, Steve lifts his head. “This—isn’t mine.”

            Vision has gotten to his feet. His eyes glow a soft yellow. Leaning against the end of the couch, he remarks, “Mr. Stark asked that I return it to you and to also relay these three words exactly: ‘No take backsies.’” Vision tilts his head. “Does that make sense to you?”

            Steve slumps a little. His shield feels so good in his hand. The one from T’Challa was fine, and the quarter shield worked too—but this is _his_ shield. “Yes,” he says gruffly. Steve clears his throat. “Would you—pass along my thanks?”

            “I will indeed.”

            Steve is reluctant to set down the shield. He feels like the second he puts it down, it will disappear again. He didn’t realize how much he missed it until now.

            “As I stated,” Vision continues, “two of your friends bid me come with gifts.”

            Carefully, Steve places the shield on the counter. He doesn’t move more than a foot from it. “So you’re not the second friend.”

            “I don’t believe that we know one another well enough to define myself as such. This doesn’t mean I will not be friendly towards you, it simply means we are likely no more than acquaintances.”

            Steve studies him, and says, “You don’t care for me much, do you.”

            Vision considers the statement before replying. “You attempted to prevent my creation. You deny that I am worthy of holding Mjolnir by inferring that I am not even alive. And the course of action you took—“ His voice darkens for the first time Steve has ever heard. “ _Endangered_ our allies. Should I care for you?”

            After a moment, Steve asks, “Is she okay?”

            Without so much as a blink, Vision answers, “Who?”

            “Come on. I know you got to Sokovia before I did. Is Wanda okay? Is she the second friend you’re talking about?”

            Vision threads his fingers together. “The first is a question that has no possible answer. The answer to the second question is no.”

            “Vision, despite reports to the contrary, I’m not an idiot. If it’s coming from you, it must be because of Wanda—“

            “Your second friend sends his regards.”

            Steve stops. “Oh.” Vision raises a brow. “So definitely not Wanda. Then who?”

            Without answering the question, Vision says, “He regrets the manner of your parting. Even now, he will only refer to you as an ally, but I know him. He considered you a friend. Considers you as such still, though he would not admit it. If he did not, he would not have agreed to what I proposed.”

            “I have _no_ idea who or what you’re talking about.”

            “Have you ever been in love?” Vision asks, and that shuts Steve up.

            After a few surprised seconds have passed, Steve says, “Yes.”

            “Have you ever loved someone who made you reconsider your entire conception of yourself? Have you ever loved someone to the point of madness? Where what you do for them makes no logical sense, but you must do it, at all costs, because that’s the depth of your affection for them?”

            “Yes,” Steve whispers.

            Vision nods. “I may not care for you, but you and I have more in common than perhaps I would like to admit, or that you could understand. That is why I made a request of our mutual friend. He wishes to pay his debt to you, and I would like to help you both. I care for him, and I understand your position.”

            Steve has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. But he says, “All right.”

            “He and I…explore. And in the midst of our explorations, sometimes we come across things that others are unable to find.” Vision stands, and walks across the room to Steve. He holds out a slip of paper, folded in half. Steve takes it, meeting Vision’s yellow and silver eyes. “This is what you are looking for. We will offer no further aid.”

            “Understood.”

            Vision steps away. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am expected elsewhere.”

            Steve says, “Vision?” and the man stops. Steve lifts the folded piece of paper. “Whoever our mutual friend is—tell him I said thanks.”

            Vision inclines his head, and with each step away, sinks further into the floor, until he has disappeared entirely.

            When he’s gone, Steve takes a breath. He reaches back to finally turn on the lights. Setting the paper down next to his shield, he unfolds it, and has a look.

            It’s a drawing, of a run down, two story building with turrets and a sagging sign that says Harry’s Hardware. The windows have been boarded over, and it’s behind chain link. Underneath the drawing are the words, ‘Philadelphia—Use the back door.’

            Steve puts his hand on the shield, and closes his eyes.

 

He’s dreaming about poison gas, and his maimeó is telling him the story about it, only this time his father is there beside her. He’s staring at Steve, little Steven Rogers, and the boy knows he’s a disappointment. His father was a hero, and he is—just this.

            Steve startles awake at the tapping on his window. Peculiar.

            Right.

            He lifts his head, squinting. There’s a police officer standing by his car. Without any further prompting, Steve opens the door and says, “Good morning.” The sun is up. Wasn’t the last time his eyes were open.

            “Morning,” she replies. “Couldn’t help but notice you sitting out here.”

            He left the house about ten minutes after Vision left. As long as it would take him to disable the tracking device on his computer, just like Natasha showed him, to look up Harry’s Hardware. Once he’d written down the address, he dropped his phone, got in his car, and drove to Philadelphia.

            When he got there, it was too late at night, or too early in the morning depending on your point of view, to book a hotel. So he’d parked out back of an abandoned gas station and gone to sleep. He didn’t mind the cold. After all—67 years in the ice.

            Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he says, “Sorry, officer. I drove down here from New York, and it was—“ Steve sighs. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

            “Can I see your license and registration?”

            “Yes ma’am.” He gets it for her out of the glove compartment. He really wishes this hadn’t happened. No one wants to be picked up by the police for anything these days. Less than a year out from the worst terrorist attack in world history, everyone is on edge, especially in the big cities.

            This time it’s Sam’s voice he hears: _yeah, with those blue eyes and that blond hair, I bet you’re in real trouble now, Cap._

            “Steven Smith. You been drinking, Steven?”

            “No ma’am.”

            “You been doing anything else?”

            “No ma’am.”

            She looks in his eyes to see if he’s telling the truth. He can’t help but notice she’s got ice blue eyes. They’re nice looking. “You said you drove here from New York?”

            “Not the city. Just outside of Albany. My—girlfriend and I had a fight, and she broke up with me, so I got on the road and just started driving. And now I’m here.” Steve’s so tired that he knows he looks properly dazed. “Why did I do that? It makes no sense.”

            He squeezes the bridge of his nose. Man, he really hopes this works and he doesn’t get ticketed. He doesn’t want to have to answer for why he took all the trackers off his car and ended up in Pennsylvania.

            “Well, we all do goofy things sometimes.” He raises his head, and finds that she’s holding his things out for him. Steve takes them as the officer says, “One of those goofy things you don’t want to do is fall asleep in your car in the middle of winter. That’s a pretty easy way to die of hypothermia. And you really don’t want to do it this close to Strawberry Mansion.”

            “Strawberry Mansion?” Steve says, hoping his face is good and guileless.

            “Let’s just say you’re lucky. You won’t have a car in the morning, the next time you do this. Or your money. So how about next time you feel like taking a drive, turn around before you hit the state line, okay?”

            “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

            She pats his door, then walks back towards the street.

            Strawberry Mansion. That’s exactly where he needs to go.

 

Steve passes through the parts of the neighbourhood that have gentrified to those that haven’t. There’s chain-link and empty lots, beautiful old buildings that have fallen into disrepair next to those that look like they didn’t see better days before they were swiftly abandoned.

            When he sees the building, he swallows. He’s not letting himself hope too much. He just can’t. Vision didn’t say what he’d find here, just that it was what he’s looking for. Steve drives past it, turning right.

            He finds a lot, parks the car, then steps out into the snow. Putting his hood up, not allowing himself to speculate but just be open to anything he might find, he walks back the way he came.

            The building is actually quite striking, and it’s a shame it’s been allowed to falter. It’s two stories, with three pointed turrets. All the windows have been broken out, and boarded up from the inside. The sign on the lower level, that says Harry’s Hardware, also says, ‘Est. 1922.’ This was someone’s home, Steve can tell. They lived upstairs, worked downstairs. But judging from the sagging façade, Steve guesses no one’s used the place in at least two decades.

            Walking along the chain-link fence, he keeps an eye on the building from the corner of his eye. He looks for any sign that it’s been occupied. From the front, there’s nothing. The place is surrounded by chain-link, the building next to it less impressive but equally unloved. The snow on the sidewalk hasn’t been shovelled, and the only evidence Steve sees that anyone’s been near the front are a few bird tracks.

            The house is on the corner of the street, so Steve walks around the side, still seeking signs of life. Nothing. Closing his eyes a moment, he listens, as hard as he can. Blocks out the car driving on the next street, the old man yelling at someone from his window—

            Someone inside the building says something.

            Steve opens his eyes, not slowing his step. He has his quarter shield in its holster on his back, hidden under the coat. He’s prepared to fight if whoever’s inside isn’t friendly.

            He wishes he had his real shield. But he can’t exactly carry that around in the day time, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave it in the car. It’s under his bed, back at home. It’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to a dreamcatcher.

            The chain-link only extends to the rear of the house. The back is exposed to an alley. Across from the building are more places that have seen better days. Steve sees a homeless guy peek his head out further down the way, then skitter back into his box. He’ll go over later, give him some money. He always does.

            The place is designed so that the back door is slightly hidden from the rest of the alley. Steve glances up, and for the first time spots the cameras. They’re tiny, located under the eaves on the turrets. They point down at whoever approaches the entrance. Tilting his head back briefly, he spots another on the weather vane at the very top of the building, no larger than a dime. Invisible, unless you have sight like his.

            Steve takes a breath, then shoves his hood back. With one more look around, he steps up to the door. It was once painted green, but now it’s faded and peeling. The place is very convincing.

            _How in the hell did Vision find this_? Steve wonders. Him and whoever Steve’s mystery friend is.

            _Mind Stone, genius. Be glad he doesn’t know everything._

            He lifts his hand, and raps on the door a few times with his knuckles before stepping back.

            For a moment, nothing happens.

            Then there’s the fast, almost silent patter of feet across the floor. Steve knows immediately that it’s not who he hoped. The person is too small, too light. He pushes down his disappointment. Vision said this was what he was looking for. He needs to trust that.

            The door flies open and a gun is pointed in his face.

            Steve stares at the young man holding it. _Holy shit_.

            He’s lanky, with skin that’s naturally a yellow-brown, and almond shaped dark eyes. His long black hair is left loose down his back. He doesn’t so much as blink as he points the Soviet-era Makarov at Steve’s face with both hands, and he’s not stupid either. He’s far enough back that not even Steve could grab the weapon before the kid could fire at him. He looks like someone who won’t think twice about pulling the trigger.

            Steve says, “Hi, Semyon.”

            The young man’s brow furrows, ever so slightly, but he doesn’t lower the weapon.

            Lifting his hands carefully, Steve pauses when Semyon tightens his hold on the gun, turning his foot back in preparation for Steve to lunge at him. Very slowly, showing him that there’s nothing in his hands, Steve reaches upwards. He hooks a thumb under his mask, seeing the young man’s eyes narrow, then he pulls the disguise off.

            Semyon stares at him, then lowers the gun. His expression going livid, he keeps his eyes on Steve while yelling angrily over his shoulder in Russian.

            Someone, Steve doesn’t recognize the voice, says, “What?”

            Semyon almost spits out more words, looking like he wishes he would have shot Steve.

            Then a familiar voice says, “My what—“ and Bucky comes around the corner.

            He stops dead.

            Steve can probably count on one hand the number of times that he’s actually surprised Bucky. No one’s ever known him better, and Steve knows he’s got a bad habit of doing what’s expected of him, even when people wish he wouldn’t do something. Bucky has almost always known what Steve would do before Steve did, a more benevolent MODOK.

            So to see this look on his face is unfamiliar. The wide eyes, the deer in the headlights expression. Steve discovers that he _really_ likes it. He smiles, and says easy as anything, “Hey, pal. Miss me?”

            “Well—fuck,” says Bucky.


	10. Nothing to Lose

The moment’s broken when Semyon rounds on Bucky and goes off on him in Russian.

            Steve stands in the doorway, apparently forgotten, as Semyon stalks over to Bucky, and Bucky meets him, putting up his hands and arguing back at him.

            He takes the opportunity to look Bucky over. Wow. If Steve thought he’d looked good from just the neck up, the rest certainly isn’t in poor shape either. He’s wearing pegged, close fitting jeans over battered boots, and a checkered green shirt with both sleeves rolled up to his elbows—

            Wait. Wait just a damned minute.

            The left arm isn’t metal. It looks exactly like the other.

            Steve’s taken aback, but the surprise doesn’t last long. He can wear a mask that makes him look like another person. Of course Bucky could put something over the metal arm that would make it appear natural.

            He loves it. Not that there wasn’t a certain appeal to the metal one—an appeal he won’t admit even to himself—but seeing Bucky with what at least looks like two flesh arms is like being able to take a breath for the first time in three years.

            Steve returns his attention to the bitter battle being waged between the two men, Semyon speaking quickly through gritted teeth and Bucky answering with raised shoulders, shaking his head and holding up both hands.

            “What in the hell are you two—“ Someone else comes to the doorway that Bucky emerged from. Steve can’t tell if the person is male or female. Asian, wearing black goggles and cowboy boots over their jeans. They take a look at Steve and say, “Well. Fuck.”

            They turn to Bucky and start going at him in Korean, waving a hand at Steve.

            After about ten seconds of listening to these two berate him in Russian and Korean, Bucky yells, “ _Enough_!” They both silence, both of them displeased. Bucky points back the way they came. “Go. Sit down. Behave. Work on Minneapolis.” Semyon opens his mouth, and Bucky’s voice goes flat. It’s the Winter Soldier voice. “Minneapolis.”

            Semyon pivots and shoves the other one back through the door. Steve hears him cursing under his breath, the kind of curses Natasha tells him to make him blush.

            And then it’s just the two of them.

            Bucky rubs the back of his head, and says a little lamely, “Hello.”

            “Can I come in?”

            “Don’t see why not. You’ve already found the place.”

            “Well,” Steve mutters, moving inside and closing the door after him, “there’s a ringing endorsement for our friendship.”

            The inside is a little less battered than the outside. They’re in a small room with a hanging bulb overhead. There are a few coats hung up on the wall, and about six pairs of boots in different sizes by the door. They’re all black.

            “Sorry,” Bucky says. “I didn’t—expect to see you.” Frowning, he drops his hand. “How did you _find_ this place?”

            Shrugging out of his coat, Steve answers, “Did you forget that I work with people who are near unto gods?”

            “The demi god’s not on the planet right now—the synthetic one.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “The guy with the Infinity Stone.”

            “So you know about the Infinity Stones.” Steve gestures to the wall, silently asking if he’s good to hang up his coat.

            Bucky gives a nod, and Steve puts his coat next to the others. “I know all sorts of things. One of the reasons I really don’t want SHIELD to figure out where I am.”

            “Do I look like I’m here on company time?”

            “Dunno. Is that a shield on your back or are you gonna do a fan dance?”

            Steve crosses his arms. “I didn’t know that I’d find you here. I wasn’t going into an unknown situation unarmed.”

            “That would be a first.”

            “Nice to see you too.”

            Then Bucky smiles a little, and Steve realizes he’s forgotten every bad thing that’s happened in the last—God, how long? It’s all been wiped clear, just by seeing him. And Bucky smiling—some of the light back in his eyes, and for real, not just because he thinks it’s what Steve wants to see—

            Jesus, it _guts_ him.

            Bucky steps towards him, and Steve automatically inches back. Stopping, Bucky raises his brows. With a soft laugh, Steve says, “No offense, but the last two times you got near me, you either stabbed me or knocked me unconscious, then disappeared into the night.” He shrugs, wishing things were different, but that’s the story of his life. _Steve Rogers: Can I Please Try Again?_

            Nodding, Bucky has the good grace to look slightly remorseful. “Right. Smart.” He crosses his arms, echoing Steve’s posture. “Only took you ninety nine years.”

            “Happy belated birthday, by the way.”

            “Thanks.”

            “What’d you do for it?”

            “If I told you that, I’d—“

            “Have to kill me. Since I technically died on the table back in January for a couple minutes, I think you’ve filled your quota for this lifetime.”

            “C’mon, you’re hardy. I bet you walked that off in about five minutes.”

            “Dying? Yeah, I just bounced back.”

            “So no harm, no foul.”

            “I wouldn’t go that far.”

            They look at each other a moment, and Steve’s heart is pounding. It’s the most natural, most familiar conversation he’s had with Bucky in over seven decades. He knows when Bucky’s faking, if he takes the time to look for it, and Bucky’s not faking right now.

            Shifting a little, Bucky looks down and says to the floor, “If I promise not to—you know, stab you or tranq you or anything—could I come over there a sec?”

            “If you promise and you mean it, yeah. If you don’t, the next time I find you—and I’ll find you, Buck—I’m gonna shoot you in your knees. I swear to God.”

            Bucky clears his throat, nodding. He carefully crosses the five feet separating them, and without looking at Steve, wraps his arms around his neck, then rests his head on his shoulder.

            Steve can’t relax, not entirely. He’s lowered his guard too many times. Still, he puts his arms around Bucky’s back, reaching up to touch the nape of his neck.

            “Hi,” he says.

            “Hey,” Bucky mumbles. Steve lets himself enjoy this, but he’s very aware of every movement of Bucky’s hands, just in case. “Sorry about—last time.” Then he’s pushing himself away, like he can’t stand being seen so vulnerable. Face hardening, Bucky demands, “What are you doing here?”

            “I—“

            “Why are you stupid? Huh? What part of ‘we shouldn’t be near each other because it’s dangerous for the whole world’ is so difficult to get through that big dumb head of yours?” Bucky searches his face, exasperated. “And for God’s sake, Steve, why the hell’s your hair so long?”

            Letting out a laugh, Steve shrugs. “I have to wear a mask everywhere I go. I get too nervous, being near a barber, about it coming off.”

            “Well, now I know why Sam was making fun of me all the time.” Bucky sighs, and turns. “Come on, we’ll get J to take care of it for you. Might as well show you everything, since it doesn’t appear that leaving you on a mountain or killing you is going to get rid of you.”

            Steve grins, and follows him.

 

Bucky leads him into a room that’s filled with computers and cords. It’s huge, presumably the old sales floor for Harry’s Hardware. It glows with all the lights overhead and tacked to the walls. At least four radio stations are playing, all of them on low, none of them music, one in Russian. There are three primary computer stations, each decorated and obviously frequently used.

            Semyon’s behind one that has a truly alarming set of knives on a shelf over the computer. There’s a full ashtray on top of his computer, and he’s tapping viciously at his keyboard with only his index fingers. His face is blank, but his anger radiates off him like smoke from a smoldering fire.

            The largest station is inhabited by the person who is presumably J. They’ve put the goggles on their forehead, but Steve still can’t tell if they’re male or female, and he’s a little embarrassed by that. They’re gorgeous in a completely androgynous way, black hair messily pinned back.

            The third station, empty, is the neatest of them all. The cords have all been bundled and tied up, there’s no dust, and there’s a small bottle of screen cleaner with a cloth carefully folded. A still steaming cup of coffee is next to the computer. The mug has the Captain America symbol on it.

            Steve glances at Bucky, who scowls. “J got it for me as a joke.” Bucky takes a breath, and gestures to the other two. “So you already know Semyon.”

            “Yeah.”

            Semyon murmurs something. Bucky leans down over his shoulder and whispers to him in Russian. Steve sees the kid pale. When Bucky stands up, Semyon turns to Steve and says with a thick accent, “It is nice to see you again.”

            “You too,” Steve lies. Semyon turns back to his computer, pecking away.

            “And this is J,” Bucky says. “Plural pronouns.”

            “Sorry?” Steve says.

            The person reaches out their hand, and when Steve takes it, says, “It means if you call me he or she, I’ll send the New York Times pictures of you engaging in sexual congress with a minor well before deadline.”

            Blinking, Steve replies, “Beg pardon?”

            J smirks, withdrawing their hand, and Bucky says, “It’s the twenty first century, Steve. You’re telling me there’s no one genderqueer at SHIELD?”

            Flabbergasted, Steve responds, “I don’t even know what that means.”

            Bucky nods to J, saying, “They’re my wizard. Gets me everything I need to know. Semyon’s kind of our apprentice.”

            Lifting his head, Semyon says in offense, “Apprentice?”

            “We’ve talked about this. You can stab all the people you like, but I can do that for myself, and you still can’t figure out how to get me into Deutsche Bank. And what did I tell you about typing?” Muttering, Semyon uses both hands instead of his index fingers. Bucky slips his hands into his pockets, and says to J, “Can you do something about Steve’s hair?”

            J arches a brow, looking between the two of them and their computer. With a sigh, they push themselves up. “Sure. Not like I was _busy_ or anything.”

 

It is so bizarre.

            Ten minutes ago, Steve had no idea if he was about to find Bucky or just breadcrumbs. Now he’s sitting by a kitchen table with a smock around him, and a complete stranger standing over him with scissors, as Bucky sits in front of him, backwards on a chair.

            “So what?” says J. “You want it like all the pictures I’ve seen of you, or something different?”

            “Just—short on the sides and back—“

            “Long on the top,” J finishes. They cast a look at Bucky. “Yeah, never heard that before.”

            They walk over to the sink, filling up a spray bottle. Steve glances at the kitchen. It’s well-lit but no day light comes in through the boarded up windows. There’s a coffee maker and toaster. There’s a microwave that has a handwritten note taped to the front that says ‘Clean up after yourself or I’ll shoot you.’ It’s Bucky’s handwriting, and it’s also been written out in Russian and Korean. There’s an open door that leads to the basement.

            J comes back, and starts spritzing Steve’s hair. He grimaces, but he catches it when Bucky has to hide his smile behind the arms propped on the back of his chair. Seeing Bucky smile relaxes him. Always has. J combs out his hair, and Steve sits very still.

            “So?” he asks. “What have you been up to?”

            “You mean, how illegal’s what we’re doing here, and do you need to call in a missile strike?”

            “No, I’d actually like to know what you’ve been up to.”

            Ignoring that statement, which was honestly meant, Bucky says, “Answer to the first question is that nothing we do here is legal, and the answer to the second is I’d have J reroute the missile to land in the ocean. We’re mostly non-lethal, dealing largely in espionage, corporate and otherwise, though we don’t deal in the state secrets of our home nations for purely sentimental reasons.”

            J’s stopped, scissors over Steve’s head.

            Bucky shrugs at them. “What? He’s already here.”

            “Unbelievable,” J mutters, bending down to snip away at Steve’s hair.

            “Was the Prime Minister in Burkino Faso you?”

            “Yeah, but that’s before I met up with these two. The Corporation got me out of New York, so I owed them. That and they promised me this.” He holds up his left arm. “I’ll give you a moment to silently judge me.”

            “No,” Steve says. “I’m not going to bother with that.”

            Bucky pauses, frowning briefly when he sees that it’s true. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

            “Well, since you’ve obviously infiltrated SHIELD’s security systems, I’m guessing you know all about it.”

            Bucky raises his shoulders, and J murmurs, “They don’t want everybody to know their business, they should at least draw the blinds.” Steve turns his head, and J scowls lightly at him. “Don’t do that, unless you want to lose an ear. That won’t be my fault.”

            “You’re able to find SHIELD’s black ops missions,” Steve says, wanting to make sure.

            “Yeah. Why not?”

            “Because—they’re the most secure in the world.”

            J breaks into a grin, and Steve turns red when they put a hand to one of his cheeks and kisses the other. “God, Bucky, you told me he was naïve, but you didn’t tell me he was _adorable_.” They stand back up and continue to cut his hair.

            “Don’t worry too hard about it,” Bucky tells him. “SHIELD’s as safe as they can be. J’s just special.”

            “Special,” J breathes. “You know I like it when you call me special.”

            Bucky gazes at them with a look Steve knows all too well. “Fishing for compliments, gorgeous?”

            “I don’t need to fish for compliments. I already own the sea.”

            Bucky turns back to Steve, and says, “SHIELD doesn’t have to worry about us, even if I know we can’t convince them of that.”

            “What, because you’re the good guys?”

            J barks so hard that Steve jumps. They step back, covering their mouth. Flapping their hand, they say, “Sorry. Sorry, I’m good. You two keep catching up. This is really entertaining.”

            “He was being sarcastic,” Bucky tells J. “Don’t let that aw shucks, Americana face fool you. There’s no good guys in this game, and you know it, Steve. There’s—fucking terrible people, and the rest of us. Some of us try to keep the world from blowing up, and some of us profit off the human race as it leaps into the abyss.”

            “And which are you folks?”

            Bucky thinks, then offers, “Bit of both.”

            “That’s charitable,” J says.

            “So,” Steve says, “what’s your story, J?”

            “Oh, you know,” they reply. “About what you’d expect. Prison time, treason charges, master degrees, all kinds of really hot sex, and the occasional bit of violence.” They run their fingers through his hair, and give him another spritz. “That and a lot of Red Bull.”

            “Just be glad they’re on my side,” Bucky tells Steve. “You should have seen what they were doing when I proposed this operation.”

            “It wasn’t that bad,” J says. “Just because you put a bomb somewhere doesn’t obligate you to set it off.”

            “So you’re all freelance,” Steve says.

            “We work in a team. Take the jobs that no one else wants. What’s our profit margin, J?”

            “63%.” They gently tilt Steve’s head forward. He’s a little nervous when he hears clippers turn on.

            “What about Liechtenstein? Was that business or pleasure?”

            J points the clippers at Bucky and says, “So help me, you say another word to him about business in front of me, I’ll start shaving pieces off his face.”

            “Can I ask about Semyon?” Steve inquires.

            Bucky rests his chin on his arms as J says, “Oh, please. Explain to me how that spooky motherfucker ends up working ten feet from me seven days a week.”

            “You and Sam blew Lidiya’s position once SHIELD got hold of you. Probably figured it would shave a little time off your sentences. Lidiya didn’t go without a fight. Semyon, though, he was already long gone.” Bucky leans back. “Left two days after we did.”

            “He figured we’d sell him out?”

            “He thought you two might, yeah. It was more on his own initiative. He was getting sick of hiding in Nekrasovka. The kid’s got skills, he just needed someone other than Lidiya training him.” Bucky looks at his hands, then starts picking at something under the nails on the left one. “He hit some trouble in Phnom Penh in April. I was ready to start taking on more regular jobs, so I picked him up and found a third partner.”

            J waves a little. “That would be me.” They put a hand on top of Steve’s head, murmuring, “Be very still please. This is where the difference between attractive and ‘all your fault’ happens.”

            “Yes—“ Steve grimaces, and Bucky snorts.

            “What?”

            Bucky says, “He doesn’t know whether to call you sir or ma’am.”

            “Neither,” J says acidly, “or I rain hell on you.”

            Steve closes his eyes as the clippers move along his scalp. He’s always liked having his hair touched, though it’s often attached to bittersweet memories. His mother or Bucky touching his head after a particularly egregious nightmare. Sometimes he’d lay down with his head in Sharon’s lap while they watched a movie, and she’d run her fingers through it. He loved those moments.

            A few minutes later, he feels long, dry fingers run along the back of his neck, and the clippers shut off. “Yeah. Much better. Just a second.”

            Steve smiles politely as J leaves, then looks to Bucky, who’s just quietly studying him. “Better?” Steve asks.

            “False modesty is a waste of time,” Bucky replies. “You’re aware of the effect your appearance has on other people.”

            He’s different than the last time Steve saw him, and yet there’s still reminders of the Winter Soldier. He is much more easy and loose, a lot like the man Steve knew a lifetime ago, but he blinks little and doesn’t pretend not to be watching every person in the room as closely as possible. There’s a stillness to him between actions, like he’s thinking about everything he’s observing.

            However—more friendly then their escape from Russia.

            “Have I mentioned that I’m glad you’re not dead yet?”

            “As a matter of fact, you haven’t.” Bucky waits, then says, “So?”

            “I just said it.”

            Bucky tilts his head, obviously searching for the memory. Steve grins when Bucky replies, “My ma always said you have to actually say the words. Otherwise it’s a cheat.”

            J returns with a bottle of compressed air. “Hold still,” they say, and without ado begin blasting him in the face with it, getting off all the small hairs. It’s not comfortable, but Steve hears Bucky snicker for just a second, so it’s more than worth it.

            When they’re finished, they take the smock off Steve. He says, “Thank you.”

            “Yeah, sure,” J replies, going to get the broom that leans against the wall. “Consider this a favour I did you, in case they ever send me to a black site.” They gesture for Steve to get up, so he does. Bucky gets up too, pushing his chair back under the table.

            They stand together, Steve waiting to see what happens next. A bit perplexed, Bucky says, “I have no idea what to do with you.”

            “Just don’t mortally wound me or run off again, and I don’t care.”

            Bucky leans past J and says something in Korean. J mutters, “Jesus,” then replies in the same language.

            “Oh—right. Uh—none of us really cook, we just microwave everything, so do you want to go out and get some food?”

            Steve would—he hasn’t eaten yet today—but he says, “Yeah, I just—could we order in?”

            Cocking his head, Bucky asks, “Why?”

            Shrugging, cheeks going a bit pink, Steve answers, “I don’t really feel like wearing the mask any more today.”

            Bucky thinks about it, then nods. “All right. If you can wait a few hours, I’ve got an idea.” He pulls out his phone, flipping through it, and says to J, “Could you keep an eye on the dark prince?”

            “Do I look like a fucking babysitter?”

            “Yeah, but a really attractive one.”

            J rolls their eyes, but says, “It’s a _damn_ good thing you’re the lay of the century, Barnes.”

            “It certainly doesn’t hurt things,” Bucky says, turning on the lights to the basement and heading down them. He lifts the phone to his ear. “Close the door, would you?”

            Steve follows, closing the door after him. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer, but he asks nonetheless. “So—are you two--?”

            Bucky shakes his head, as though it’s a useless question. “No. I just sleep with my friends—hey,” he says as someone picks up. Steve looks around at the workshop they’ve walked into. “It’s me.”

            It’s filled with metal sculptures large and small. The littlest ones have been constructed of wire looped repeatedly into recognizable shapes. A bicycle, a boy, a wildcat of some kind. The larger ones are all abstract, the metal fluid and reaching upwards, but brutally ripped in places. There’s welding equipment carefully organized on the wall, and it’s neater than any workshop Steve’s ever been in his entire life.

            He looks back to Bucky when he repeats, “It’s me.” Bucky grimaces briefly, looking upwards. “It’s Grant.”

            Steve raises his brows. His mouth tries not to curve upwards, but he doesn’t entirely succeed.

            Wrapping an arm around himself, Bucky looks into the distance as he speaks. “What are the odds of me renting the place out for the evening? How—often do I joke about that? I don’t know. Five thousand? Ten? What was it, five thousand or ten? Just you and one cook. Nobody else. Yeah, I got company. No—no, I have _company_. I’m allowed to have company. Jesus Mary and Joseph, if you don’t want money, then—okay, we’ll be there at 4:30. Okay, bye.”

            Bucky hangs up with a roll of the eyes. “Some days it’s difficult living in this country. It’s much easier to bribe people in other nations.”

            “Hm. Grant.”

            “Don’t.”

            “And _I’m_ sentimental.”

            “So this is my workshop,” Bucky says, putting his phone away.

            “You’re sculpting again. Grant.”

            “I’ll kneecap you,” Bucky threatens. “I have the materials.”

            “What are you working on right now?”

            Bucky juts his chin out, and takes Steve over to the corner. It looks like a person struggling to emerge from steel. Or being sucked into it. “I don’t know,” Bucky says. “It passes the time between making bombs and robbing multinationals.”

            Steve knows Bucky will look at him strangely, but he asks, “Can I watch you work on it?”

            And Bucky does look at him like he’s grown a second head. “You want to watch me weld?”

            Steve nods, shrugging. “Lotta time to pass until 4:30. We could always talk, if you’d prefer—“

            “Sure, you can watch me weld,” Bucky says, like Steve knew he would.

 

Being happy and relaxed is almost a foreign sensation for Steve.

            He’s got his feet kicked up on a table, paper on his lap, quietly sketching, as Bucky arc welds in the corner. It is preposterous, that this is happening. Steve should be asking all kinds of questions, demanding the hows and whys and putting himself on the line.

            Instead, he allows himself this instead. After yesterday, giving up, he really feels like he has nothing to lose. He sits with the most important person in his world, and lets the time pass quietly by. It’s all he wants. He knows it won’t last.

            So he takes this for himself.

 

“Ask you something?”

            “It starts,” Bucky mutters.

            They’re walking down the back alley. Steve started to put his mask back on, but Bucky told him not to bother, to just put his hood up. “We ain’t going that far,” he’d said.

            “It’s about your sculpture.”

            “Oh.” Bucky looks uncomfortable a second, then shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

            “Is he being sucked in or trying to get out?”

            “Neither.”

            “Not that I have an art degree or anything—oh, wait, I do—but it’s kind of one or the other.”

            Bucky shakes his head. He’s in a blue peacoat that reminds Steve almost heartbreakingly of the one he wore in the war, his collar turned up against the wind. “You’re working on the supposition that the grass is always greener on at least one side. I’m working from the belief that no side is better. The figure is only moving from one reality to another.”

            “He—doesn’t look real happy either way.”

            “It always hurts to be born.”

            “Does it have a name?”

            “ _Passage_.”

            “It’s beautiful.”

            Bucky shrugs off the compliment. The old him would have dodged it with a few words. This Bucky literally just shrugs it away. He says to the homeless guy as they pass him, “Paul, I gave you a blanket. Where the fuck is it?”

            “Sold it.”

            “Then you’re gonna freeze tonight, and Steve, don’t even think about it,” Bucky says, pointing a finger at him before Steve can take out some cash. He pushes Steve onwards, shoving his hands in his pockets.

            They go to the end of the alley, and Bucky walks up to the back door of the last building. He pounds on it a few times, and steps back.

            “You sure this is okay?” Steve asks.

            “Steve, they haven’t told anyone _I’m_ here. I don’t think you have to worry.”

            The door opens, revealing an attractive middle aged woman in jeans and a black top, her greying blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Hey, Grant.”

            “Hey Tess,” Bucky says, stepping inside. “We good?”

            “Blinds are drawn, sign says closed. You want anything more than that, I’ll need to put out barbed wire.” She nods further inside, and says, “Come on in.”

            Steve follows them through a small kitchen, keeping his hood up. He spots a portly man in a cook’s apron, sharpening his knives.

            She leads them out into a little restaurant, completely ordinary in every way. The walls are white, and the tables are covered in burgundy cloth. Without a word, Tess steps back so they can take the booth closest to the back exit, in the corner.

            “Well, I know what you’re having,” she says, “but—“

            Steve lifts his hood, looking at her with a small smile.

            Tess freezes for a moment. She recovers rather quickly, and finishes her sentence. “I’ll get _you_ a menu.”

            Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. He’ll get the black Angus, and we’ll share an extra order of fries. Steve, you want a milkshake? They do good ones here.”

            “Uh—sure.”

            “Give him whatever Semyon likes. What is it, chocolate?”

            “You bet,” says Tess, slipping her hands in her back pockets. “Anything else?”

            “Not for now, doll, I think we’re good.”

            She nods, and walks back to the kitchen without casting Steve so much as another glance.

            They each slip out of their coats, and Steve glances at Bucky. He had a shower and changed before they left. His outfit hasn’t changed much, only he’s wearing a grey button up that brings out the blue in his eyes. Still rolled up to his elbows. He’s obviously put product in his hair, and styled it carefully. Steve wants to flatter himself and believe it’s for his benefit.

            Steve’s eyes are drawn back to his left arm, which Bucky notices. He extends it. “Good work, right?”

            “Looks like the real thing. How much damage can it take?”

            “Hell of a lot more than real skin. Self-sealing, unless I cut it down to the metal. I’ve got the same amount of sensation, pressure, temperature, that I did with just the arm. And it’s a lot more convenient than having to wear black gloves everywhere, looking like I’m about to strangle people.”

            Steve nods, then observes, “You—seem to be doing a lot better. Than last time.”

            “You mean I seem to know who the hell I am.”

            “I guess that’s it.”

            Bucky runs a hand over the side of his hair. “I dunno. The whole thing in December and January, kind of opened up a lot of things that wanted to stay closed until then. And I’ve had another ten months to figure myself out on top of that.” His smile turns wicked. “What was it you said to me? Time and therapy?”

            Steve snorts. “Yeah, I bet that’s what did it.”

            “Oh yeah,” Bucky says flatly, “you should see me in therapy. I’m completely in touch with my feelings.”

            “The day you come within ten feet of a psychiatrist is when I know we’ve finally seen the end of days.”

            “Sounds accurate.”

            Steve’s rubbing his hands together under the table. He tries to make himself stop. Instead, he just asks. “What happened with MODOK?”

            Bucky doesn’t seem surprised that Steve got right to it. Leaning back against the booth, Bucky answers, “Got in there, door sealed behind me. He was pissed you hadn’t shown, but he wasn’t exactly stunned. Said there was a thirty something percent chance of me showing in your place, which showed that he was about as bright as he was sane. He flipped, hit the button before I could stop him, and I punched right through his head.”

            “Right—through his head.”

            Shrugging, Bucky says, “That was his real weapon. I figured he was rigged to blow the place if his vitals stopped, but the city was already exploding, so at that point, all I had to lose was him surviving and coming after you. Besides, I was already fairly certain that everything was going to blow no matter what. He wanted you to know the city was destroyed before taking you with him.”

            He is so nonchalant discussing it. If Steve’s skin could hold ink, he would tattoo the number of dead across his chest. Bucky apparently doesn’t feel it.

            “I’m not great with empathy,” Bucky remarks, almost reading Steve’s mind.

            “No, I just….”

            “I told you. There’s a couple of people I care about, but I can count them on one hand. Everybody else, HYDRA just burned that piece out of me.” Bucky shakes his head, easily meeting Steve’s eyes. “It doesn’t keep me up, the people I shot, or all the people who died in Brooklyn. The only reason I care about the latter is because of how much tighter airport security’s gotten in places and the WSC threatening to launch some kind of international task force to track down enhanced. That’s all I’ve got there. Sorry, Steve.”

            “You almost killed yourself. Saving them.”

            Bucky actually rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so noble. We both know I did it for one person.” He leans out of the booth, turning on that beautiful, charming smile. “There you are. You know what I like.”

            Tess comes to the table with a small smile of her own. “Don’t even. Not after last time.”

            “We had a great time,” Bucky says, all wide eyed innocence.

            She sets some kind of dark fizzy thing in front of Bucky, and a milkshake in front of Steve. Looking at Steve, she nods to Bucky. “You know he’s trouble, right?”

            “Oh, I know,” Steve replies.

            She leaves them again, and Steve frowns. Bucky sips at his drink, then says, “What?”

            “Just out of curiosity—of all the people I’ve seen you with today, who haven’t you slept with?”

            Bucky thinks about it. “Paul, the bum out back.”

            Steve pauses, then recoils. “Jesus, Bucky, don’t tell me you and Semyon—“

            “That’s _old_ news, Steve. Semyon and I fucked back in Sakhalin.”

            Colour draining from his face, Steve protests, “Don’t tell me that.”

            Stirring his drink, Bucky informs him, “Sam walked in on us the first time and everything.” Steve can’t even speak. It’s just wrong. It’s so absolutely wrong. “That’s kind of the face he gave me too, though slightly less judgmental. How is Pigeon?”

            “I—I thought—“

            “You thought what?”

            “You were kidding that he might be your grandson—“

            Cracking up, Bucky waves a hand. “No. Give me some credit. They clipped me the first time they took me. I’ve been shooting blanks for seventy years. No little Barnes running around, at least from my end. Never checked in on the rest of the family. Figured that was for the best.”

            Steve’s relieved, and also horrified. About the whole thing, really. Another thing that was taken away from Bucky. Just like everything else.

            Nonplussed, Bucky says, “So? Sam?”

            “Good. He’s really good. I haven’t seen him lately. They keep me on a—pretty short leash. But he’s doing okay down in DC. Working for SHIELD—you already know this. You even knew about his girlfriend.”

            “Yeah, but apparently it’s polite to ask. What about you and Sharon? How are the two of you doing?”

            Steve stares at him, then says, “You gotta be kidding.”

            Blank, Bucky replies, “What?” And he means it. Somehow, he has no idea.

            Crossing his arms on the table, Steve says, “You know about black ops mission that haven’t even been written down, digital or on paper. You know my exit code. You obviously know more about my current target than even SHIELD does. And you’re telling me you’re the only person on the planet who doesn’t know about me and Sharon?”

            “What about you and Sharon?”

            Flummoxed, Steve answers, “We broke up.”

            Bucky gazes at him, then says, “Oh.”

            Sitting back, Steve nods. “Yeah, oh.”

            “When?”

            Bucky sounds oddly concerned. Hundreds of thousands dead in New York, not a flicker. Steve’s love life, he seems worried. “Like a week and a half ago.”

            “Are you gonna get back together?”

            “No,” Steve says with certainty. He takes the straw out of the shake, sucking off the bottom.

            “Why not?” Steve looks up, curious. Bucky just used the Winter Soldier voice. The demand for data. Steve waits, and Bucky blinks, becoming more human. “Why not?”

            “Just didn’t work out.”

            “She really likes you. You shouldn’t have done that.”

            Steve doesn’t understand his reaction. “She broke up with me, buddy.”

            For the second time today, Bucky looks surprised. “She—broke up with you?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “Why?”

            “Wasn’t the right guy for her. You okay there, Buck? You look like you’re taking it harder than I did.”

            Bucky scowls, moving back from the table. “No, I just—thought you were happy.”

            Steve starts laughing.

            He can’t help it. He covers his face with one hand, and has a good long chuckle.

            Bucky waits him out, arms folded across his chest and brows furrowed. “Explain why that is funny.”

            “Honest to God, Buck—I don’t think I’ve been happy for more than a few hours at a time since 1941.”

            It’s the truth. Being here with Bucky—knowing he’s probably going to take off the second Steve looks the wrong way—what the hell has he got to lose? He told Natasha as much as he could about Bucky, and the sky didn’t fall. And he thinks of how she said, “I missed my shot.” If Steve has to actually say what he’s thinking to try and change the foregone conclusion of this encounter, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything.

            With a little cringe, Bucky says, “Aw—don’t say that, Stevie.”

            “I could lie to you, but what’s the point? Who the hell knows when I’ll see you again.” Steve shrugs. “Second time I met Sam, he asked me what makes me happy. I had no answer for him. None. That hasn’t changed much.”

            “You’ve got friends,” Bucky argues.

            “Sam’s in DC, and I stay out of his life because I’ve already messed it up so bad. Natasha, yeah, she’s all right. Tony, well, we just talked for the first time in a year and a half. You, I don’t see for months or decades at a time. I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. The last while has been—terrible. It’s been really, really terrible.”

            Bucky’s gazing at him with wide eyes. Steve’s not sure he’s ever been this honest with Bucky. He’s not one for complaining, for saying what he really feels unless it’s an opinion about the mission. Only this isn’t a mission. It’s his life. Maybe he needs to act like it.

            Not wanting to scare him off, Steve asks, “What makes you happy?”

            Coming back to life, Bucky says, “Me?” He thinks about it, a faint smile on his face. “Oh—all kinds of things. Walking—I did that a lot after Brooklyn, hitched back and forth across the country or just walked all day. That was good. Reading—a lot of poetry lately. Sculpting. Rocky road ice cream.” He props his head up. “I like Mondays best, because that’s when everybody around here’s gone back to work and it gets a little quieter. Sex makes me happy. Well, to a certain extent. Other people are so….”

            “Fragile,” Steve finishes.

            Nodding, Bucky says, “The first time I let myself go a little, I broke a bed.” Steve drops his head, trying to cover his blush. “You too, huh. Well done, Steve. What’s your solution? Floor?”

            “Floor,” Steve agrees.

            “I can’t even use my left arm because I’m scared I’ll break them. But besides all that, it makes me happy. I’m always—what was the phrase I used to use? I can’t recall it.”

            “Always on active duty,” Steve finishes.

            Bucky nods slightly. “That sounds familiar, yeah. Lot of things make me happy. I guess that’s what I’ve spent the last ten months figuring out.”

            “You still—don’t remember everything?”

            “No. I think I’ve gotten back as much as I ever will. For about a month after Brooklyn, I kept getting more, but then it slowed down, and it’s stopped. I think this is all I’m going to get. But that’s fine. I think I mostly got the good stuff.”

            “What about the bad?”

            “Plenty of that too.” Bucky shifts, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’m real sorry about Sharon, Steve.”

            “Last time we talked about her, you called her my child bride. Said I was just on the rebound from Peg.”

            “Well yeah, but you’d just kidnapped us and were threatening to kill yourself. I said all kinds of things I didn’t mean.”

            Steve can’t help but worry when he hears that. Self-conscious, he says, “Which—other things didn’t you mean?”

            Bucky doesn’t reply at first, doing that thing where he just watches carefully. Like he’s weighing his options for response. “A couple.”

            Steve sees that’s all he’s getting for now. So he asks, “The Corporation got you out of New York?”

            “Yeah,” Bucky says, relieved. He smooths his hair back, one side, then the other. “It was chaos, and there was military everywhere—I had no idea what else to do. They told me to call a number if I ever needed a favour, so I called it. An hour later, I’m on a helicopter out of the city, no questions asked. Is this where you ask me about the Power Broker?”

            “If you want to tell me about him.”

            “I’ve never met with him, because no one meets with him. My initial meet with The Corporation, after DC, was in Liechtenstein. There were all kinds of bad people there. Twelve of them. They’re not on the kind of lists the public knows about. Some of them aren’t even on lists that SHIELD has. But I met them in Vaduz, and they made their pitch. The Power Broker’s second in command was there. Cherise Jackson. She didn’t say much. She was the only one not saying much, so I paid attention to anything they said about her and her boss. Then she offered me a billion dollars for information about you.”

            “And you said no.”

            “What the hell was I gonna do with a billion dollars? Buy an island? I said no, told The Corporation I wasn’t interested, and they let me go. But her guys, they tried to grab me. Some of the people working for The Corporation were helping me, trying to fend them off, but they got killed pretty quick. I just offed them all and ran. After that, I made sure to learn all I could about the Power Broker. It was pretty obvious that they were eager to land you.”

            “The original super soldier.”

            “Yep. I don’t know where Curtiss Jackson is. But I’ve got plenty of horror stories about the man. Not to mention his cousin. She’s a stone cold piece of work.”

            “She said Curtiss would want to scalp Natasha.”

            Bucky doesn’t seem the least bit taken aback. “Yeah, he usually takes trophies.”

            “Jesus.”

            “SHIELD doesn’t know this stuff?”

            “The only agents they’ve sent in to PBI all disappeared.”

            “Well, no wonder they sent the two of you in there with fuck all for back up.”

            “Nah, we had it under control.”

            “Steve.”

            “Buck.”

            “Just admit you needed help.”

            “We didn’t, but I’m still glad you showed.”

            “Unbelievable,” Bucky mutters. “You never change.”

            “So? If you know everything, how do I defeat the Power Broker?”

            “Find out where he is and nuke him.”

            “Well, if your wizard can’t do it, how am I supposed to?”

            “The truth of it is, I haven’t been that motivated to find him. I had J look a few times, but never for more than five minutes. We’re booked solid for the next year, and then there’s taking into account the crisis calls. I’m not in the business of stopping bad guys, I’m in the business of making money. So I haven’t gone too close to PBI, considering that I know they’re nuts and want to use me to get information on you. The only way to him is through Cherise Jackson. You find her, maybe you find him. It’s a big organization, and he might be the innovator, but she’s the one who does the paperwork, so she’s the real problem.”

            “How many people does she travel with?”

            “Twenty,” Bucky replies. “All ex special ops. And her letting you find her—showing SHIELD her itinerary for the past month, with I’m sure a few significant omissions—that was just sacrificing the pawn. They’ve got other facilities making those same drugs. Not to mention the main lab where they make their bottled freaks.”

            “Can you tell me where those other places are?”

            “Can I? Yeah. Will I? No.”

            Steve pauses. “Sorry?”

            “SHIELD has already shown that they don’t understand who they’re dealing with when it comes to The Corporation. They were unaware of Cherise Jackson’s intention to intercept you at the facility. Romanoff wasn’t even able to smell her out until they surrounded you. I refuse to place you in a situation where that ridiculous organization you work for puts you in unnecessary danger.”

            “My mission right now is the Power Broker. You can help, or you can decide not to. Doesn’t mean it’s not still my mission, or that I won’t complete it.”

            Bucky puts his head in his hands. He groans softly.

            “What?”

            Bucky raises his eyes above his hands. “I’m me, right? And I understand that you’re—you, and that this Captain America thing isn’t ever going away, even if you want to pretend otherwise. But even though I’m me, _me_ is still a conglomerate of several other people. There’s the person who understands that you have a job, just like I have a job. I can even respect that.” He drops his hands on the table, and Steve hears a little metallic _clink_. “Then there’s the person who hears you use a word like ‘mission’ and wants to strangle you with my bare hands, like ‘mission’ means a goddamn thing.”

            “Like I’m a kid again, playing war, and you want to smack some sense into me.”

            “Yes,” Bucky says emphatically.        

            “Too bad I grew up, huh.”

            “Until last year, you wore a red white and blue uniform to work. If you want to tell me you ‘grew up’ you’re going to have to really make the effort to prove it to me.”

            “You can’t protect me from everything. You can’t even protect me from most things. Especially if you’re gone.”

            “C’mon, Steve—“

            “I’m an adult. And until someone offers me better, this is the job I do. You can tell me what you know and make things a little easier on me, or I can go in there blind and you can hear about my untimely demise on the evening news while you’re assassinating the Sultan of Brunei, or whatever it is you’ve got on the docket for the week.”

            Disgruntled, Bucky says after a pause, “I’ll take it into consideration.”

            “You do that. Now tell me how you even survived.”

            “What, New York?”

            Steve rolls his eyes with a put upon sigh. “No, the Battle of Waterloo, genius—“

            “You got a real mouth on you, you know that?” But he’s grinning. Bucky shrugs, and replies, “Everything blew, and I went up with it all. Then something else went off under me, and it blew me back. I was falling, and then—“ Bucky smacks one hand on top of the other. “I was hurled so far I ended up in the river. That woke me up pretty goddamn fast.”

            “You ended up in the river?”

            “Yeah. Good thing, too. I mean, I broke four ribs, my right arm in two places, fractured my skull, and I had a piece of rebar sticking out of my side, but my legs were fine. So I stayed in the water until the primary event had passed, then crawled back on shore, dropped the mask so you’d know I was okay, then I proceeded through the blast site.”

            Steve looks at him from under his brows. “You—walked _into_ the wreckage.”

            “When you’re trying to escape, chaos is the best cover. If I had stayed on the shore, I might have been one of the first people picked up. No, I knew I needed to maintain anonymity until such a time arrived that I could extricate myself.”

            Steve has tried not to think about it. What it must have been like that night. Blocks on fire, sunken into the ground, people bleeding, bodies everywhere—Steve clears his throat, and says, “How bad was it?”

            Bucky gives him a withering gaze. “It was a walk in the park. What do you think?”

            He should have picked up on how Bucky was talking. Using words to distance himself from the event. Maybe he doesn’t feel the loss like Steve does, but he doesn’t want to discuss it.

            “How long were you in there?”

            “Five days.”

            “ _Jesus_ , Buck.”

            “I have had _far_ worse. Don’t worry about me.” Bucky frowns a little. “So you…crashed twice on the table?”

            “Uh huh. You remember how you stuck that knife in my back and twisted it around in my kidney? It’s unexpectedly difficult to just shake that off.”

            “I knew you’d be fine,” Bucky says stubbornly. “Nothing’s killed you yet. I just needed you damaged enough that you would be physically unable to make the meet.”

            “How long had you planned it?”

            Bucky thinks back, then answers, “Probably about thirty seconds after you said you were going to off yourself to save everyone else. You took all my weapons, but you left me the picture of Lidiya. I was able to write the instructions to the hospital on that for Sam, and I found a knife in the storage room. That was all I needed.”

            “How much of what came before you stabbed me was planned?”

            Narrowing his eyes, Bucky asks, “How do you mean?”

            “I mean, how much of what came before you stabbed me was you playing me?”

            “Ah.”

            With a sick feeling, Steve says, “So all of it.”

            “ _No_ ,” Bucky replies with a vehemence Steve had not expected. His left hand curls into a fist on the table. Shaking his head, Bucky looks at him with unblinking eyes. “I had to get you far enough from Sam so that he wouldn’t stop me, but so he was still close enough that he could get you immediately. That meant refusing to say goodbye, and then getting you to stop a few seconds later. I needed you to hug me, so that I could stab you, and I knew you’d do that. The rest—that wasn’t pretend.”

            Steve rubs the back of his neck, feeling the short, shaved hairs. “I have no idea whether to believe you or not.”

            Bucky grimaces, dropping his eyes. Gruffly, he says, “Guess I deserve that.”

            “You _guess_? When’s the last time I angled to get close enough to stab _you_?”

            Bucky takes a deep breath, then smiles. “Hey, remember how I’m a deeply troubled individual?”

            “Please.”

            “Look, I’m not gonna—apologize for doing it. You’re fine, I’m fine, and neither of us died.”

            “Just half of Brooklyn.”

            “No, less than a quarter of Brooklyn, and that thing was rigged to go no matter what. Without some kind of computer genius on our side, we were over the barrel. I worked with the options I had. The one was letting you kill yourself and finally be that martyr you’ve aimed for your whole life. Or I go in there and do what I always do.”

            “Be a real jerk?”

            “No. Do what you can’t.” Bucky stirs his drink again, looking into it. “I’m not saying that’s better—I like that you’re not capable of doing the things I am. It’s good that you’re not.”

            Steve studies him. He knows this man. Knows him in and out.

            And he doesn’t know him at all.

            “What is that you’re drinking?”

            Bucky looks up. “Roy Rogers. It’s just Coke and grenadine. You want some?”

            Or maybe Steve does know him.

 

Bucky’s a bite into his burger when Steve says, “You know, legally, we could get married.”

            Bucky chokes.

            He drops the burger, clamping his metal hand over his mouth. Steve watches from across the table, picking up his own burger. He manages to look innocent.

            Because again—to hell with it. He’s sure that back at Harry’s Hardware, Semyon and J are probably stripping the place bare and dousing the walls in gasoline. He doesn’t know when he’ll ever see Bucky again.

            So if he’s going to say anything, now’s the time.

            Bucky somehow swallows, coughing. As he picks up his drink to try and clear his throat, Steve asks, “You okay there, Buck?”

            Eyes watering, Bucky says to him in disbelief, “Now? You want to have that conversation now? Here?”

            “What, you mean Philadelphia? Well, I tried to work up the guts to say something to you in Vinegar Hill, but that didn’t work out and now it’s been burned to the ground, so I guess we can’t do it somewhere nostalgic.”

            Bucky braces himself against the table, cheeks flushed. Steve’s never seen him like this. It took a lot to make Bucky blush back in the day, and now it’s combined with consternation and surprise.

            “Steve,” Bucky says, “this is _not_ a good conversation to have.”

            Steve thinks a moment. Then he shakes his head. “I’ve spent nearly nine decades not talking about it. I hate my job, hate my life, I don’t believe in God, most of my allies if not my friends have abandoned me, and I’m not sure if you’re going to throw a smoke bomb and defenestrate yourself in an effort to get away from me. What exactly have I got to risk besides my pride, Buck?”

            Bucky’s mouth works a moment, then he says, “Sorry—nearly ninety years? How long are we talking?”

            Steve takes a deep breath, and says, “Since I was twelve.”

            Huh. This is actually happening. If there’s an afterlife, his mother is losing her mind right now.

            For a second, Bucky just stares at him. Then he says, “You son of a _bitch_. You have got to be kidding me.”

            “What, when did you think it started for me?”

            “I dunno—I didn’t think you ever really—you never looked at me like that—“

            “Jesus, Bucky, my ma had to sit me down when I was fifteen and lecture me about how I wasn’t allowed to feel the way I did about you. If she figured it out, don’t tell me you were clueless.”

            “Your _ma_ knew?” Bucky says, flabbergasted.

            “Come on. If you didn’t know, why the hell’d you kiss me?”

            “Because I’d had a crush on you for about as long as I could remember, and you gave me a golden opportunity.” Bucky shoves his plate out of the way, and crosses his arms on the table, focusing entirely on Steve. “Since you were _twelve_.”

            “Uh huh,” Steve says, a little light headed at the confession. He can’t believe they’re doing this. It’s a miracle. Or armageddon. Whichever. Both.

            “But you didn’t—the one time I even tried, you—“ Bucky can’t even finish his sentence. It’s the most off his game Steve has seen him since the war.

            Steve stops pretending to care about anything else either. He picks up his plate, setting it aside, and looks back at Bucky. “It was 1934. We were Roman Catholic, Buck. Everybody already made fun of me for everything else, and a month before you kissed me, my mother sat me down and told me to stop risking my soul. I was sick all the time—to me, dying and going to hell was something that could have happened at any second. It was real to me, it was so real. And I didn’t want to—I don’t know. Take you down with me. After it happened, all I could do was just—pray for you. Ask God to forgive you, because I’d done something wrong, and it wasn’t your fault.”

            “You fucking saint.”

            “I didn’t even get that it wasn’t a one time thing for you until we were living together. Not really. And there was never another guy I was—all that interested in. I’d notice them, yeah, but they always looked like you.” Shifting in his seat, Steve mutters, “You idiot.”

            “ _I’m_ the idiot in this scenario.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I am.”

            “Yep.”

            “Uh, no. No, because even if I didn’t wave a flag in your face saying ‘I like guys as much as I like girls, only I like you best,’ you still knew. There were ten more years after ’34, Steve.” Bucky taps the table with his fingertips. “Ten more goddamn years. Ten and a half, actually. And you didn’t say a _word_.”

            “I was a confused kid with a lot of things to prove. You were the confident one. Why didn’t _you_ say anything?”

            Bucky hisses, “Because I didn’t think you wanted that.”

            “Well, even though I couldn’t articulate it at the time, because—my immortal soul and all that—I did. All the praying in the world couldn’t get rid of it. I loved you more than I loved God. Hm. Somewhere, I feel like my therapist just fist pumped, and she has no idea why.”

            A deep crease appears between Bucky’s brows. “I thought you loved Peg.”

            “I did. I always will. You’re not the only one who’s allowed to like both. Seriously, did you dose my drink? I can’t believe I’m actually saying all this.” Steve tosses up his hands. “I like both. I always liked you best. Always loved you best. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

            Bucky just stares at him. Covers his mouth with both hands, propping his head up, and looks at Steve with grey-blue eyes that won’t blink. Steve sits there, letting himself be examined, cheeks pink with a rush of bizarre giddiness.

            Finally, Bucky puts his hands down, his expression deadly serious. “I have to ask you something.”

            “Okay.”

            “And—I’m not saying it to be a prick. I’m saying it because I honestly do not understand.”

            “Okay.”

            Bucky says, “Two months.”

            Steve sucks in a little breath, then nods. “Yeah.”

            “Explain it to me. Because I just _don’t_ get it.”

            He’s twisting his hands under the table. Steve’s done it automatically. He hesitates, then puts his hands on top of the table, and fidgets with them there.

            Quietly, he says, “When you fell—that was it. That was just it. I, uh…basically stopped. Dugan took control of the unit, because I couldn’t talk. We got back to England, and for about a week, they couldn’t get me to—do much of anything. I was…broken.” Steve traces a circle on his palm with his thumb, watching himself perform the action. “When I could finally get my head up, I asked about your body, what had happened. They told me it was taken care of. And I didn’t ask what that meant. I didn’t want to know what it meant. I wanted to believe that they’d found you, sent your body home or at least buried you. But I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think about you—dead. I didn’t want to think about what you looked like, dead. Bad enough I knew I’d be dreaming about you falling, me not catching you, for the rest of my life. I shut off. I just did what people told me to for the next two months, killed as many HYDRA as I could—I just did what I was supposed to, because I didn’t know what else to do. For Christ’s sake, I went _over_ there for you. It was all for you. And you being dead—I just followed orders. You were gone, and I ceased…being.”

            He doesn’t raise his head. Doesn’t want to see how Bucky has reacted.

            “Say that—I could see your reasoning behind that.” Steve’s heart seizes. Bucky continues, “But I’d already been taken by HYDRA once. You found me on a table, half out of my mind. You asked me what happened, and you didn’t argue with me when I said we weren’t going to talk about it. Now—I’d just been tortured. I know why I said it. Another doctor had come near me, I would have killed them. But what’s your excuse?”

            “I’d never seen you like that. I didn’t know how to talk to you about what happened. You were the one who could talk. I’ve always been terrible at talking. And I know what you’re gonna say. You would have never let me get away with it, if our positions had been reversed. I know that’s true. But there were all kinds of things I couldn’t say to you. And this is probably the only time we’ll ever talk about them, because I know myself well enough. I don’t think I could have talked to you about it then. I know I couldn’t.” Steve shakes his head, and murmurs, “Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

            A few seconds go by, and he finally dares to look up. Bucky is gazing at the wall, lost in thought.

            Then he says softly, “Yeah. I know.” Steve thinks his heart actually stops. Bucky sits back, letting out a sigh. “I know…you did your best. I know that. Sometimes, it’s just…easier to be angry. If I can blame somebody, then I can say what if, and then I can think about what my life would have been like if it wasn’t this, and that’s just asking to be a basket case. It’s no way forward. And I’m really fucking sick of living in the past.” Bucky scratches behind his ear, and says, “So okay. I forgive you.” He glances at Steve. “That’s what you wanted to hear, right?”

            Steve has to swallow a few times, then he nods. “Mm hmm.”

            “Stevie, don’t.”

            “I’m not,” he says flatly.

            “Good, cause this has already been really stressful, and if you cry, I _am_ going to defenestrate myself.”

            “I’m not crying,” Steve says, and pulls his plate back in front of himself.

            Bucky does the same, watching Steve carefully. “Okay, well, if you do—“   

            “Listen, wiseass—“

            “And you’re back,” Bucky says with relief. “Pass the ketchup, would you?”

 

A few minutes go by, and Bucky says, “Married.”

            “I did just say that to see the look on your face. I should have got a picture for Sam.”

            “Married, though.” Bucky dips a fry into ketchup, and points it at Steve. “I did always picture you married.”

            “To who?”

            “Dunno. Someone who made you happy. Sure as hell not me.”

            Steve shrugs, having a sip of his milkshake. “Well, if your criteria was that I be happy, guess I’m out of options.”

            Bucky lets out a low growl. “Steve—don’t do that to me.”

            “What, be honest with you? Everyone around me wants to know what the hell I’m really thinking or feeling, and this one time, I’m just going to say it, whether you want to hear it or not. Because I know that the second I take my eyes off you, you’re in the wind again. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’ve said my piece.”

            Resting his elbows on the table, Bucky spreads his hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not suggesting—Steve, I know you’re not suggesting….”

            “What?”

            Bucky looks at him sideways, and says, “That ship has long since passed. It passed around the time the Great Depression ended. We would have been safer getting together then than now.”

            “Well, if we’re talking legalities—“

            “We are not and you know it. We are talking about two men with psychiatric issues who have extraordinary abilities and a tendency to destroy everything they touch as soon as they get within a mile of one another. Brooklyn is the kind of thing that happens when you throw in your lot with me.”

            “Brooklyn wasn’t your—“

            “If you hadn’t told Stark and the rest to fuck off, and basically abandoned the resources of the entire world to go on the lam with yours truly, do you think MODOK would have succeeded?” Steve’s struck dumb. He doesn’t like to think about that. But Bucky sees that he’s found a weak point, and he jabs. “You would have had Stark and all of SHIELD behind you. MODOK waited until you were weak. You separated yourself from the herd to throw in with me, and half a city was levelled. Is that the kind of world you want to live in? Because I would have assumed your answer would be no.”

            “Why do I have to be the one to save the world?”

            After a beat, Bucky says, “Beg pardon?”

            Steve inhales, and repeats, “Why do I have to be the one to save the world? There’s 7.4 billion people, and I’ve—done my bit. Time and again. And maybe I think I’m done.”

            “You already tried this, in Wakanda, saying you weren’t Captain America—“          

            “I’m not. I’m a zombie. I walk into SHIELD, and I do what they want because it was the only thing keeping me and Sam from jail time in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I do it because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want the life I’m stuck in right now.”

            “Doesn’t mean I’m a good alternative. You could never live with the things I’ve done or do. Present tense. I’m not real precious about human life, Steve. Don’t imagine I ever will be.”

            “Do you get off on killing people?”

            “No, I only do it if it’s necessary.”

            “I kill people all the time for SHIELD. Not like I took an oath to never take a life.”

            Bucky shakes his head. “Steve, be realistic. You can’t leave it behind—“

            “To hell with you. I can do what I damn well please. There’s just no point if I’m alone.”

            “So are you leaving or are you not?”

            “I’ll leave if I know you’re there. I’ve got no reason to go elsewhere if I’m just left by myself again.”

            “ _Martyr_ —“

            Steve leans forward. “I—know what I want. I want you. Same as always. I’ve been a coward my—whole goddamn life, Buck. This is as brave as I can be. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it makes no sense. But you and I and how we got this far, that makes no sense either. So maybe we should stop talking about what’s logical and just do what we want.”

            “And what do you think I want?”

            “I don’t know, but if you’re going to sit there and tell me you were willing to die for me based on purely platonic feelings, I’m calling foul.” Steve sits back up, jabbing a few fries into ketchup before stuffing them into his mouth.

            Bucky sticks a hand into his hair. He closes his eyes, then messes his hair up. Dropping his head back, he looks at the ceiling and sighs.

            He lets his head fall forward again, fixing his hair. “Tell me what you think it would look like, if you and I got together.”

            “I’ve got no idea.”

            “See? You—“

            “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you—I don’t _know_. I’m not saying I want it because I know it’ll be perfect or even work, or because it’s right, or it’s what’s expected of me. I’ve spent my whole life doing that, and I’m telling you—I want this to the point where I don’t know what would happen. You know me. You know I’m—stubborn, and predictable, and I know it too. I want this too much to be predictable. I want— _you_ , you jackass, so bad I’m willing to break all my rules. And maybe you want to go on and talk about how that’s a bad thing, that people like me shouldn’t want things for themselves, that we’re dangerous together, and I’ve got a responsibility, but Jesus Christ, I’m still a _person_. I’m allowed to want things without knowing how it’ll turn out, and I want you. So don’t fucking make me feel bad for that.”

            A little taken aback, Bucky says, “I wasn’t trying to—“

            “Yeah you were. So cut it out.” Steve sighs unhappily, raising his shoulders. “You know, I’m going on here, and I don’t even know if you’ve got skin in the game. For all I know, you’re letting me make a fool of myself instead of just saying you don’t want me back. Do you? Do you want me back?”

            Bucky gazes at him, and says, “Steve, don’t do this to me—“

            More frustrated than he can stand, Steve hisses, “Oh, to _hell_ with this—“ and starts to push his way out of the booth.

            Because he’s put himself on the line here. It’s as brave as he can possibly be, but he’s not that much of a punching bag, and he’s not going to ramble on if what he’s feeling isn’t reciprocated.

            Bucky’s left hand shoots out, and he says, “Don’t go.”

            Steve pauses, almost out of the booth. “Why not?”

            Grimacing, Bucky says, “Steve.”

            “What do you want?” Steve demands. “No slipping out of it like you always do. I’m asking you a simple question. Answer it, or I walk away. And if that’s what you really want, fine. You won’t see my face again. But you tell me right now, James Barnes. Tell me what the hell you want.”

            Seconds pass, Bucky looking at the table instead of him. Steve can practically see the gears turning in his mind.

            Losing his patience, Steve says, “Fine,” and pushes himself up.

            “ _You_ ,” Bucky says quickly. He holds out a hand, not touching him, just trying to keep Steve in place. “You, okay? You know that, I know that, the whole world knows that. I just need some fucking time to think about it. Now, would you sit down?”

            Steve stays standing a moment, to make him suffer a little. It’s not like he’s enjoyed baring his soul. But then he sits down, raising a brow at Bucky.

            “Stop looking at me like that,” Bucky mutters, yanking his drink close.

            “So what do you think you and I together would look like?”

            Able to meet Steve’s eyes for that one, Bucky replies immediately, “It looks like a holocaust, and you die at the end.”

            “You’re so dramatic.”

            “ _I’m_ dramatic.”

            “Yeah, you’ve always been like that.”

            “The hell I have. We know between the two of us—“ Bucky puts a hand to his face. “Jesus. This is unbelievable. You’re worse than having a wife, you know that?”

            “You’re worse than having a husband,” Steve shoots back. “At least if we broke up, you’d be legally obligated to kick me some of that 63% profit margin.”

            Dropping his hand, Bucky gives him a crooked grin. “Is that what you’d do, Rogers? Marry me for my blood money?”

            “Nah, I’d marry you for the pure chemical attraction. I’d _stay_ with you for the blood money.”

            Bucky leans forward, studying him. Still a bit confused, he says, “You’re _serious_ about all this, aren’t you.”

            “Not about marrying you, no. But being with you? Yeah.”

            “I…I don’t get it. You’re a smart enough guy. You know I’m not the person I was when we were kids. You don’t really know me now.”

            “I’ll always know you.”

            He’s glad when Bucky doesn’t argue that. Instead, Bucky says, “Steve—you ever even been with another guy?”

            Steve doesn’t say anything. He just picks up his milkshake and has a sip.

            “You have,” Bucky says, and he sounds a little stunned. “Who?”

            “None of your business.”

            “You just asked me about who I’ve been sleeping with.”

            “No, you’re imagining things.”

            “I’m imagining things?”

            “Yeah, you’re a deeply troubled individual. I’ve got it on good authority.”

            Eyeing him, Bucky asks, “Did he look like me?”

            Steve feels the colour rushing to his cheeks.

            “He _did_. You’re a sick twist, Rogers.”

            “Any of the guys you’ve been with—they ever look like me?”

            “No,” Bucky says, and Steve nods, not sure what answer he was hoping for. “But that was always kind of the point.” Steve looks up, and Bucky shrugs. “There’s a couple billion other people. There’s only the one you.”

            Steve smiles. “For you, that’s practically romantic.”

            Bucky grumbles, then fixes Steve with a glare. “Listen—I can’t offer you stability, or sanity, or safety, or a life that’s anywhere near ordinary. I’m a criminal, that’s what I’m good at, and that’s not looking to change any time soon. I’ll always be a target, I’m not nice, I’m—surface gloss when I have to be but that doesn’t mean there’s anything good underneath. I’m willing to do things you wouldn’t imagine, and if I told you, I know you’d run screaming out that door.”

            “So why aren’t you telling me those things?”

            Pausing, Bucky says, “Cause—you’re you. And I’m me. And because I’m a fucking moron who doesn’t seem to know when the right time to let you go is.” Bucky actually puts his head down on the table. “This is a disaster.”

            “I’ll try not to take that to heart.”        

            Steve continues to eat. Bucky just makes a steady growling noise for about thirty seconds.

 

They thank Tess for the food, and Steve watches as Bucky passes her what looks like many thousands of dollars in cash. Then they’re out the back door, and they’re in the alleyway, in the snow and the night and the cold.

            Steve sticks his hands in his jacket pockets, looking back down the alleyway. “Well,” he observes, “your minions haven’t burned down the house yet.”

            Standing next to him, Bucky says, “Must be slacking.”

            Sighing, Steve asks, “So is this where you stick me with something and leave me to wake up tomorrow next to a dumpster?”

            “No.”

            “Break my legs and ride a jetpack out of the city?”

            “Not that either.”

            Steve looks at him. “So what then?”

            Bucky gazes at the ground. Then he says, “I don’t know.” He glances at Steve.

            Ninety years. That’s more than enough time.

            Steve takes him by the sides, carefully moving him back against the wall. He’s waiting for the moment when Bucky breaks free, or does something awful, or just up and leaves. But the man goes willingly, letting Steve press him back with his whole body.

            They can see one another in the dark, like no one else would be able. Steve looks at Bucky’s unblinking eyes, watching for what he’s going to do.

            Bucky says, “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

            With a shake of the head, Steve counters, “It was always supposed to be like this.” He bends forward and kisses him.

            He’s not hesitant about it. The last time he did this with Bucky, he was saying goodbye. This is anything but a goodbye. Steve wants this man, wants him more than he thinks he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not shy about showing it.

            He puts one hand to the back of Bucky’s head, the other slipping around his back, tasting the sweetness of grenadine on his mouth. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, no denying it, but he refuses to not enjoy this.

            Bucky is rigid for a few seconds. But then he moves, abruptly. He takes handfuls of the back of Steve’s coat, pushing up against him. He pulls Steve’s lower lip into his mouth, and all Steve can think is _mine_. It’s primal, and when Bucky bites him, Steve knows it’s reciprocated.

            Bucky’s yanking on his jacket so hard that it rips, and they stop a second. But Bucky just mutters, “Nylon and polyester, it’s your own damn fault.”

            “You can buy me a new one,” Steve murmurs between kisses.

            “Nah, not me,” Bucky says, his flesh arm squeezing around Steve’s middle, “I’m beat. Just spent all my folding money on dinner.”

            “You’re a liar.” Steve nudges Bucky’s head back with his nose, and starts kissing under his jaw, closing his eyes at the uncontrolled keening sound that issues from his throat.

            Bucky’s whispering, “Jesus—Jesus, Stevie—“

            Steve sinks a hand into his hair and just yanks his head back. Bucky hisses. Nipping at his neck, Steve can’t help himself. He takes skin between his teeth and sucks on it, wanting to lay his claim, even knowing that any mark he leaves on Bucky will be gone in the matter of hours.

            He suddenly feels Bucky start to drop a little, and automatically grabs him. Steve raises his head, looking Bucky over. Bucky’s gazing up at the night sky, breath coming in small staccato bursts. “You okay?”

            “I require—“ Bucky tugs on his jacket lightly. “A moment. Please.”

            It’s the ‘please’ that worries him. Steve holds him by the sides, watching him.

            Bucky rolls his eyes after a second. “Don’t look at me like that.”

            “How am I looking at you?”

            “Like I need help.”

            Steve gives him a gaze from under his brow. “Buck, you need all the help you can _get_.” Bucky snorts, then reaches up, rubbing his face. “I do something wrong?”

            “No.” He frowns at Steve. Then he touches the back of his index finger to Steve’s cheek, and Steve leans into the contact automatically. “You’re doing everything right. Smart bastard that you’ve always been. I’ve just got some—unresolved—things—that sometimes pop up.”

            “Like what?”

            “Well, this has gone from hot to pathetic in record time.”

            Steve turns his head, latching onto Bucky’s finger with his teeth and sucking it into his mouth. He feels Bucky start to do that sinking thing again, and looks at him innocently. “Oh, I’m sorry? You were telling me about how sad you were feeling?”

            “Fuck you sideways, Rogers.”

            “Why would I do that? You’ve just been telling me what a moron I am for wanting you. Maybe all you’re getting is a kiss and a fare thee well.”

            “You understand that part of me is literally a killing machine, right?”

            “Tell me what I did wrong,” Steve says, without judgment. “So I don’t do it again. You keep—I don’t know how to put it.”

            “Weak in the knees, you skinny blond bitch,” Bucky replies. “That’s what it is, and go ahead, take the mickey out of me—“

            “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

            Bucky sighs, and drops his head back against the wall, not looking at Steve. “When I get overwhelmed, some of the programming acts up. It doesn’t happen much. I’m used to pretty almost everything. But to—steady myself, a word comes into my head. ‘Status.’ Been about four months since the last time it happened. Wasn’t expecting it, is all.” Bucky almost glares at Steve, and says, “So if I just stop for a couple seconds—a lot—don’t act like it’s a big deal.”

            “You telling me I overwhelm you?” Steve teases, moving closer.

            Bucky shakes his head, mouth turning upwards despite himself. “Here I thought you’d finally grown into that big mouth. Guess that won’t ever happen.” He leans forward, pressing his lips to Steve’s.

            His strong arms pull Steve close, and Steve whimpers a little. He’d be embarrassed, but why? He’s kissing the love of his life in an alley in Philadelphia. Things could be weirder, and they could be a hell of a lot worse.

            Bucky suddenly loosens the hold of his left hand, murmuring, “Sorry.”

            “It’s fine,” Steve whispers, “you’re fine.” Bucky’s not even using his left hand now, and Steve bumps his forehead with his own. “You taste like grenadine.”

            Against his mouth, Bucky counters, “You taste like America.”

            They both crack up.

            Further down the alleyway comes a holler from under a cardboard box. “Would you two faggots take it somewhere else?! I’m tryin’ to sleep!”

            Steve turns red, moving back as Bucky gives him a push and yells, “How about you call us that with no teeth in your mouth, Paul?”

            “Shows you, I got dentures!”

            Bucky puts a hand to Steve’s lower back, prompting him forward. “So how about I take those dentures and shove them up the other end?”

            “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, pervert.”

            “Yeah, it would be a trip to the moon on gossamer wings.” Steve slips away from Bucky’s touch, and Bucky looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “I do something?”

            Steve clears his throat as they walk down the alley, towards the building with the turrets. “No offense, but can you not touch me there?” He sees the moment Bucky realizes what he means, but he stands his ground. “Can’t help it.”

            Maybe they’ve had a moment, but he still doesn’t want to wake up in this alley, wondering why the hell it’s daytime.

            After a second, Bucky says, “You want to hold my hand?”

            Steve thinks he’s kidding, and he’s about to come back at him, but when he glances over, he sees that Bucky means it. With a nod, Steve says, “That would be good.”

            So Bucky slips his hand into Steve’s.

            After a few feet, Bucky says, “Of course, I’ve coated it in poison.”

            Steve puts his head down and quietly laughs.

 

When they get inside, the place is dark and silent. Steve asks, “Your acolytes already fled?”

            “Yeah, they’re probably in Zurich by now.”

            But the boots and coats are all still there. Steve and Bucky add theirs, then Bucky tugs him by the loop on his pants towards the kitchen.

            Steve follows him through the kitchen, then back down the stairs. The only light comes from a crack in the boards on the windows. They pass through the workshop to a door at the back that has a combination lock on it.

            As Bucky spins the dial, Steve presses to his back. Bucky pauses, and Steve wraps his arms around him. He kisses his way up behind Bucky’s left ear. His cheek brushes against where Bucky’s hair is shaved short.

            Bucky reaches back, touching Steve’s face. “Okay,” he says quietly, seemingly to himself. “Okay.”

            He finishes with the combination, pulling the lock off, them opens the door. Turning, he grabs Steve by the front of the shirt, drawing him inside and kissing him before Steve can even see where they’re going.

            Bucky has both hands to the back of Steve’s head, and between kisses he mutters, “Shouldn’t have got you to cut your hair. Something tells me you like having it pulled on.”

            “The hell I do.”

            “Yeah right, it’s always the ones who only _look_ vanilla.”

            Shaking his head, Steve says, “People always complain about vanilla.”

            “I’m not complaining about vanilla. No one said vanilla doesn’t look good.” Bucky snorts. “It just hides a whole multitude of sins. Hey, you still worried about your immortal soul?”

            “Why, how many of those multitudes do you want to explore?”

            “How much time you got?”

            “Let’s not kid ourselves. That all depends on how long you stick around.” Steve finally lifts his head, and looks around the room.

            It’s sparse, but after seeing how Bucky lived in Bucharest, it doesn’t come as a surprise. There’s two pieces of furniture in the room. The one is a dresser and the only thing on top is a picture of the two of them. In the dark, Steve can just make out that it’s a photo of them, a still taken from an old news reel in the war. Bucky has his head down, grinning, and Steve stands next to him with a smile, the two of them obviously caught in the middle of some joke.

            The other piece of furniture—well…

            Steve points to it, and raises a brow. Bucky just sticks his hands in his pockets and lifts his shoulders. “Made it.”

            The bed frame has no mattress. It’s heavy and metal and slightly scary looking, utterly solid and imposing. From first impressions, Steve can’t even tell what it weighs, but it must be a few hundred pounds. The corners look slightly melted, so there’s no sharp edges.

            “That where you skin your victims?” Steve asks.

            “Nah, I do that in the tub upstairs.” With a huff, Bucky says, “J’s right. Makes me look like a psycho, huh.”

            “No,” Steve replies a little too quickly.

            “I just spent so long being unconscious on metal, and that’s what feels regular, so—“

            “How sturdy is it?”

            Bucky pauses, then bites the side of his mouth. “I spent weeks layering the steel. I’m not sure if my hand could even pull it apart, unless I was making a real effort.” He clears his throat. “You want to try that instead of the floor?”

            “Yeah. Sure.” Steve shrugs. “We’re still going to destroy it, though.”

            “Promises, promises—“

            Before he can finish speaking, Steve’s swept him up off the ground, spinning them both and slamming Bucky back against the wall. Bucky grunts, legs automatically wrapping over Steve’s hips.

            Eyes blazing, he growls, “I do _not_ like when you pick me up.”

            “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?” Steve nips at his mouth, and Bucky near bites him back, teeth clacking together. He’s got his hands under Bucky’s ass, holding him up easily, and presses further between Bucky’s legs, hearing how Bucky’s breath goes shallow for that. “You too scared to use that other arm, guess I get to be in charge.”

            “Oh, I’m gonna make sure you know _all_ the definitions of punk by the end of the night, you mouthy little—“

            Steve cuts him off with an open mouthed kiss, tongue moving past Bucky’s teeth, even though that might be asking to lose it. Bucky just grabs onto him, pushing himself higher up against Steve’s body. His flesh hand has the back of his neck in a death grip, the metal one hanging over his shoulder.

            Pulling back, Steve murmurs, “Swear to God, you don’t use both hands on me, you’re gonna do whatever I want tonight, whether you like it or not.”

            He thrusts up between Bucky’s legs. The other man closes his eyes briefly, then exhales, “Jesus, Steve, do you think I _care_?” He moves his hand to the front of Steve’s throat, applying pressure. “But that’s how you want it, isn’t it, Stevie. That’s how you’ve always wanted it. Me stronger than you—telling you what to do—“

            “We can agree to disagree—“

            Bucky kicks off the wall suddenly, the dry wall crunching under his foot. He moves so fast that Steve can’t quite make out what he’s doing, only he’s got his feet on the ground and he grabs Steve, flipping him. Steve lets him, not resisting in the least. He hits the ground flat on his back with an _oof_ , and Bucky’s scrambling on top of him, pushing the metal arm down against his throat.

            “What do you want?” Bucky whispers, his lips a few inches from Steve’s. “Want me to be nice and passive, do what you tell me—or do we want to find out what it’s like to fuck someone who’s not fragile?”

            “Get this goddamn shirt off,” Steve replies.

            When Bucky’s not fast enough—and how could he be, since Steve only gives him about a second and a half—Steve tears it off him, popping all the buttons. Glancing down, Bucky shakes his head at him. “That’s a perfectly good shirt—and you a nice boy raised in the Depression. Your ma never teach you not to waste anything?”

            “I swear to God—“

            Sitting up, straddling Steve, Bucky says, “Fine. Calm down, Rogers. Like I’m going anywhere.”

            Quickly, Steve sobers. “Don’t remind me.”

            Bucky stills a second. Then he reaches up, and says, “Gonna show you something.” Steve lays underneath him, throbbing, feeling the fluttery murmur of his pulse in his throat. Bucky takes hold of his tattered shirt, and pulls it off. He tosses it aside, then shifts slightly, to show Steve his left arm.

            On his upper arm has been inked a white star on a background of blue, circled in red.

            Steve sits up. He can’t say anything at first. He reaches out, and rubs his thumb over it. It doesn’t exactly feel like real skin, at least not there.

            “Want to hear something stupid?” he murmurs, his other hand grasping Bucky’s thigh.

            “Sure I do,” Bucky says, nudging their foreheads together.

            “My body doesn’t hold ink. The ones I’ve got on me now will be gone in a couple days. But I kept thinking of how if I could, I’d get a red star in the same place.” He’s blushing, a bit embarrassed to have admitted it.

            After a second, Bucky says quietly, “We are too sentimental old men, aren’t we.”

            “Yes.”

            Bucky kisses the side of his mouth. Steve can feel his lips turning back into a smile. “I’ve been meaning to tell you—“ He takes the time to unbutton Steve’s shirt. One button after another, not slow, but it still feels like a lifetime to Steve. “Seeing all this on you—is driving me—insane.”

            He pushes Steve’s shirt back over his shoulders, then leans down to lick the tattoo that’s supposed to say he’s from Volgograd. Steve’s eyes roll back of their own accord.

            Bucky’s tongue makes its way upwards, tracing a line up Steve’s throat. Taking Steve’s head in his hands, he whispers, “I’ve thought about this for so goddamn long, Stevie. Anything you want. Anything you want me to do. I’m yours. You know I’m fucking yours.” He kisses the sensitive spot in front of Steve’s ear, and breathes, “Tell me what to do.”

            For a second, Steve doesn’t have the words. Finally, he manages to choke out, “Bed. And I won’t treat you like you’re fragile, if you won’t do the same to me.”

            “Scared I’ll hurt you. Never been with anyone I felt like this about. I don’t want to hurt you.”

            Steve mutters, “You _wish_ you were that strong.”

            That gets a chuckle, and then Bucky is picking him up like he did when they were kids, bigger and stronger, still being careful with him. He lays Steve on the hard metal surface of the bedframe, and it’s more comfortable than anything Steve’s slept on in years.

            Bucky stands over him a second, looking him over. Steve doesn’t really care about how he looks. Hasn’t cared since before the serum. But now, for the first time in a long time, he wants to know if he passes muster.

            With a soft, appreciative sigh, Bucky bends down. “You’ve always been the best thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, and flicks open the button on Steve’s jeans with a brush of the thumb. Steve shivers, and Bucky climbs back onto him. He braces his flesh hand on Steve’s rigid stomach, then grabs onto his wrist with his metal hand. He squeezes hard enough that it hurts, an acknowledgment that he trusts Steve to take it. With a crooked grin, Bucky leans over him. “How about we really tarnish that reputation of yours?”

            Steve can’t take it anymore. “If I’ve got one left after tonight, we’re obviously doing something wrong,” he says, grabbing Bucky by the back of the neck, dragging him down close, and kisses him fiercely.

 

It’s three hours later, and Steve’s sitting alone on the floor, his back to the wall. Everything aches, at least where it doesn’t outright hurt.

            He hasn’t felt this great in _decades_.

            Bucky comes back in the room, just as naked as he is, and tosses a wet washcloth at Steve. Snatching it out of the air, Steve flushes a little, and doesn’t look as Bucky takes in the state of the bed.

            “So my workmanship leaves something to be desired.”

            After he’s wiped himself off, Steve glances over. Bucky’s spraying the bedframe with possibly the same bottle J used on Steve’s hair, carefully cleaning the metal with a cloth. The headboard has been twisted and there’s a massive dent in the baseboard. Then there’s the gash down the left side, points of metal sticking up perilously.

            “Sorry about that,” Steve says, nodding to the headboard.

            Bucky shakes his head, keeping a straight face. “Should have remembered the helicopter. This thing never stood a chance.”

            His left arm is metal right now. About an hour in, he tapped out, and peeled the skin off like it was nothing. Steve had been briefly concerned, but Bucky said, “I can put it back on, and it’s self-sealing so long as you don’t bite all the way to the metal, you eager little deviant.”

            “Got it,” says Bucky. “Sokovia.”

            “What about it?”

            “There’s a ton of black market vibranium there. All the material that went into making the drill. It’ll be a lot cheaper than if I try to go through Wakanda.”

            Steve starts to laugh, but he has to put his hand to his torso. It hurts to laugh right now, at least too hard. “You might be kidding, but I think it’s the only thing that we wouldn’t destroy on the first round.”

            “Hey, it lasted—what would we call that? Five?”

            “Four. I’m a supersoldier, not Thor.”

            Bucky comes to sit beside him, favouring his left leg. Resting beside Steve, he puts aside the cloths, and they lean against each other, content like that. Steve’s good, pressed up against Bucky’s metal arm.

            “Didn’t break any of your ribs, did I?”

            Steve shakes his head. “Nah. You came close, though. You okay?”

            “Ankle’s fractured.” Before Steve can fall over himself apologizing, Bucky lifts a hand. “You know how fast I heal, so don’t start whipping yourself. Besides—you should see yourself right now.”

            Steve glances down at his body. From top to bottom, he is bruised and scratched and wearing teeth marks. For one second, he’s so melancholy that he feels ill. It’s all going to fade so fast. “I can take it,” he murmurs.

            He feels Bucky’s eyes on him. Leaning over, Bucky says, “C’mere.”

            Steve turns his head, and Bucky kisses his mouth tenderly. Even like that, Steve feels a sharp little tingle. Wrung out, his body sated and sore, and still there’s a piece of him that wants more. It’s always going to want more.

            Bucky pulls back enough to look in his eyes. “The thing about you and me is this: as bad an idea as it is, as little sense as it makes, you and I are so much a part of each other that the whole world knows. You don’t have to walk around with bruises or a ring or a tattoo—every person on the planet knows you belong to me. Always. Jake?”

            Steve smiles. He hasn’t heard Bucky say that since they were kids. “That’s jake,” he answers.

            He snorts softly, running a tired hand over his face, and Bucky asks, “What?”

            “It’s funny. I spent my whole life—terrified, people knowing. Just looking at me, and knowing I was—queer, or whatever the hell it is I am. But right now—you saying that—it sounds like the best thing that could happen. Everyone just looking at me, knowing who I belong to.”

            After a second, when Bucky hasn’t said anything, Steve looks over at him. Bucky’s flexing his metal fingers, watching the way the scales move. “You know…it’s true the other way too, right? Even if I can’t…be what you need. Probably my favourite thing about myself is you.”

            “All I need is for you to not leave again.”

            Bucky sighs. He reaches over, taking Steve’s hand into his metal one. He pulls up his knees to rest Steve’s hand against, giving himself a surface so that he can study Steve’s fingers and palm, the bones in his wrist.

            “I just need to know where you are,” Steve presses.

            “Right now, I’m here with you.”

            “And tomorrow?”

            “And tomorrow you go home, and you do what you’re supposed to do.”

            “Thought you wanted me to be happy.”

            “You’re gonna tell me that I’ve got no place telling you what makes you happy. That you’re an adult and you know yourself, and who am I to tell you what’s best for you—but I’m going to do the same thing I always do, Steve.” He closes the metal hand over Steve’s. It’s colder than the flesh, but Steve doesn’t mind. “I protect you. I take care of you. Seventy years of someone else driving the wheel, and I still couldn’t kill you. I’d walk through fire for you. And I’d run and hide in the Arctic until the day I died, if I thought it was what’s best for you. There’s no changing you, but there’s no changing me, either. Not where it really counts.”

            “I want to be happy,” Steve says quietly. “I’m so sick of the opposite, Buck. It’s getting pretty grim.”

            “You’ll get through it,” Bucky promises, watching him. “You always do. It’s tough right now because you have to work your way back up. I know you hate that. You’ll get there.”

            “I don’t want that—“

            “Steve. I’ve known you since you were six. Your whole life, you’ve wanted people to see you as you really were. Show them you weren’t weak, that you were strong. You want to be the guy in charge. That’s what’s dragging on you right now. Not me being gone. You and me—that’s not what’s right. You, being where you fit—that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

            Steve shakes his head, not wanting to listen. “The things we want when we’re six aren’t the things we’re destined to be.”

            “They’re probably more honest than the lies most people wrap themselves up in, the older they get. When I was seven, all I wanted to do was keep you safe. That’s the most true thing about me.”

            “So you think me being alone, back at SHIELD, on their shit list and without the proper information or back up, that’s safe.”

            “It’s safer than what we do for each other. I’m probably a sociopath, but even I get that.”

            “You are not—“

            “Someone with antisocial behavior, frequently criminal, who lacks a social conscience. I’m basically textbook. I can count on one hand the people I care about, and I’ve only got the one you. The rest—Steve, I don’t care if the whole world imploded around us, so long as you were still walking.”

            “I just don’t get it. I don’t.”

            “Steve—“

            “Stay with me. Or let me stay with you. Or let me know how to get in touch with you. I have to—this isn’t want, this is _need_. I need this. I’ll get on my knees and beg.”

            “No,” Bucky says simply, and Steve sees that he’s unshakeable on the subject.

            He pulls away from Bucky, wrapping his arms around his knees and rests his head against them. The actions pain his whole body.

            He hears Bucky exhale. After a moment, Bucky asks, “You read much poetry?”

            “Nope.”

            “So you don’t know ee cummings.”

            “Nope.”

            “I love him,” Bucky says. “On the surface, it looks like maybe I wouldn’t. I need things to be in their place. Organized. And at first glance, his work seems chaotic. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me in the beginning, but I kept coming back to it. The thing of it is, just because what he’s saying doesn’t make perfect grammatical sense, it doesn’t mean that each word isn’t in its perfect place. The more I read it, the more it got to me. And almost every poem made me think of you.” His metal fingers ghost along Steve’s spine. “I like your body, I like its hows. That’s what I’m thinking now, looking at you. But when I’m away from you, you know what I think?”

            Steve shakes his head against his knees.

            “This is gonna sound like a line, Stevie, and it’s not, because it’s me and you.” Bucky slips his arms around Steve, and murmurs to him, “I carry your heart.” He kisses Steve’s temple. “I carry it in my heart.”

            Steve is tired. He can’t help himself. He relaxes into Bucky’s hold.

            Petting his hair, Bucky says, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, sweetheart. Tomorrow will work itself out just fine. You’re here with me now. That’s what matters.” He pulls Steve’s head down onto his shoulder, and Steve reaches up, wrapping his hands around Bucky’s arm. “It’s you and me until the end of the line, Steve Rogers. And when we reach the end of that line, we’ll get out and walk.”

            Steve closes his eyes.

 

When he wakes, Bucky is gone.

            Steve sits up. Bucky hauled a thin roll out from under the bed, putting it over the gash, and they slept on top of it. Bucky’s arm was under his neck, and Steve had held onto him, like wishing could make him stay.

            There’s light in the room. A chunk of wood has been pulled out of the board over the window to illuminate it. Steve sighs, not wanting to have his hunch confirmed, but knowing he needs to. He gets up, finding his watch.

            It’s two in the afternoon. He was definitely sedated again.

            Steve shakes his head, and looks around the room. The picture is missing from the top of the dresser, and a piece of paper lays in its place instead.           

            Before looking at it, he goes to the open door. The workshop has been stripped. The sculpture in the corner—being sucked in, trying to crawl out, being born—remains, but probably because it was too big to get up the stairs, like the bed. All the equipment is gone, though. All the small wire sculptures. Without even having to look, Steve knows that everything will be gone from upstairs too.

            He turns back to the bedroom, and walks over to the dresser. He picks up the piece of paper, unfolding it.

           

_Cherise Jackson will be at her residence at the Ritz Carlton 50 Central Park South on the 18 th at 11:30; only five guards go inside with her and the rest surround the building. Do not pursue without equal numbers. She will deal for the Power Broker if you offer her enough. _

_Realized I didn’t say it to your face last night, but I love you. I know that you already know that, but just in case you hate me right now. My love for you is unselfish. I don’t need you with me, I need you happy and where you fit. We’re both broken, but you’re broken in a way that can get better. I’m broken in a way that realistically should mean restraints and large doses of anti psychotics. It doesn’t mean I don’t care or don’t wish it could be different; it just means that you have always been my mission, and my mission is to keep you in one piece._

_Don’t do anything stupid and don’t give up. Do what I can’t, and live as best you can. Don’t put yourself in a box where there’s only one way out. Start thinking about what comes next, and make it good and make it happen. Don’t wait._

_I remain always,_

_Yours_

            Steve stands there, looking at the handwriting that hasn’t changed, not in nearly a century. He tries to be mad, but he can’t.

            It’s the first time he can remember having slept without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first line from ee cummings--'i like your body'--is from 'i like my body when it is with your' (my favourite of his poems) and the second, which probably all of you have heard before at some point in your lives, is from 'i carry your heart.' Here it is in its entirety, just so everybody knows what Bucky's thinking when he says it. 
> 
> i carry your heart with me (i carry it in  
> my heart) i am never without it (anywhere  
> i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
> by only me is your doing, my darling)  
> i fear  
> no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want  
> no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)  
> and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
> (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
> and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows  
> higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)  
> and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
> 
> i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)


	11. Good Talk

“We put agents inside the building,” Steve says, nodding to the display. It shows the insides of the Ritz Carlton. “Me and Barton will take her in, but I want someone for every other one of the fifteen guards that are watching the place.”

            Fury raises his brow. “That’s a lot of people.”

            “We underestimated her once, and she handed our asses to us,” Steve replies bluntly. “I want to overwhelm this woman. I don’t think she’s going to care what we do to her unless we show her that we are taking PBI _very_ seriously.”

            After a moment, Fury gives a single nod. “Agreed. The Power Broker’s getting on my nerves. I’ve heard chatter that an outside unit saved our bacon in Liechtenstein, and trust me, that’s not a reputation SHIELD needs, particularly now.”

            They are back in his small office in the offsite compound. It is Steve’s first day back after his unofficial suspension. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days, and he is being very professional. His bruises and marks have disappeared, and he feels strangely clear.

            Or maybe just emptied out.

            Whatever it is, he focuses entirely on the mission at hand, and not on the little glances Natasha keeps casting him.

            “We pick her up, put her in a box, and we sit on her until she tells us how to get to Curtiss Jackson,” Steve continues.

            “You really think she’ll roll over on her cousin?” Clint asks.

            “We give her enough time in the box, I think she’ll do whatever we tell her to,” Steve says flatly.

            He feels the three sets of eyes flicker over him, but he ignores them. He uses an index finger to flip through the inside layout of the building, looking for entry points.

            “Where do you want me?” Natasha asks.

            “I think we’ll need to take her out via the roof,” Steve replies. “Can I get you up there with the jet?”

            “You don’t want 37 on that?”

            “No. My guess is that Jackson probably has people up there too. Not that 37 isn’t a good agent, but I want to make sure everything is cleared before we take Jackson out of there.”

            “If we take her out,” Clint brings up, “who steps into her shoes in the organization?”

            “Malus,” Natasha answers. “He’s not the businessperson that she is, but the Power Broker trusts him, enough that he kept him around even after his experiment went pear shaped. The Power Broker will move him up to the number two spot if we keep Cherise long enough. Malus won’t make decisions, but he’ll do whatever the Power Broker tells him to.”

            “We know where he’s going to be?”

            Natasha says, “Conference on bio-engineering in Bangkok.” Steve’s not surprised that Natasha knows exactly where to find Malus. He imagines now that the doctor is on her radar, Malus isn’t long for this world. “He leaves on the 17th, conference lasts three days.”

            “We’ll send people to pick him up the same time we get Cherise,” says Fury.

            Steve can see Natasha’s displeasure, even though it’s only a slight narrowing of the eyes. “You know,” he says, “you’re right. 37 can handle the roof. Malus is a big fish. We need him out of the way. Without his right hand or his mad scientist, the Power Broker will definitely be wounded. Nat, how about you get him?”

            She checks with Fury first, then gives Steve a smile that bares her teeth. “It would be a pleasure.”

            Steve leans back against the wall as they go over some details, half there, half in that empty space. He nods in the right places, says the right things.

            When Fury dismisses them, he says to Steve, “Hold back a second.” 

            Steve nods, having expected this.

            The door closes, and Steve gets the full force of that one eye. “Where’d this information come from?”

            “You already know the answer.”

            “Where is he?”

            “No idea. He did his disappearing act.”

            “How’d you find him in the first place?”

            Steve shrugs and replies, “In a way I was told in no uncertain terms could not be exploited again.”

            “How worried should we be?”

            “He’s got someone working for him who has no problem flipping through what we do in this room as easy as a magazine.”

            After a pause, Fury says, “So on a scale from one to ten, it’s a ‘I need to fire the tech department and hire new computer geniuses.’”

            “I’m not sure if it would help. They’re one person. If they got past everyone before, they’ll do it again. Bucky said his people don’t sell their own countries’ secrets, but anything he says needs to be taken with a grain of salt. Plus side, only reason they looked into what SHIELD was doing is because he had an encounter with the Power Broker in the past, knew we were going in without knowing what the hell we were doing. But again, salt.”      

            “He’s keeping his eyes on you.”

            “Probably. His crew helped us out last time, but now that we know what a player the Power Broker and his merry band are, I don’t imagine we’ll see them again.”

            “You two have a falling out?”

            Steve says steadily, “If he and I had a falling out, you’d see a mushroom cloud. It’s fine. He’s just gone.”

            Fury studies him for a few seconds, then nods. “Understood. Anything else you think I need to know?”

            “Not at the moment, sir.” Steve sees that he’s good to go, and heads for the door.

            At the last second, he stops, and turns back around. “Nick?”

            The man looks up, eyebrow firmly raised.

            “I know you’re probably not going to tell me the truth, but—do you actually _have_ a wife?”

            Fury sits back, bobbing in his chair a moment. Then he says, “I do.”

            “How?”

            It seems like a strange question, and Steve’s embarrassed as soon as he says it, but Fury seems to understand how it’s meant. He shrugs, and answers, “We know each other. She knows there’s only so much I can tell her. I know there’s only so much she can live with, even if it’s still a hell of a lot. And if anyone ever figured out who she was or where she was, I’d kill them, their families, and everyone they ever spoke to. Then I’d disappear, so no one would ever find her again.”

            Steve thinks about it, then nods. It’s the kind of answer that makes sense, coming from Fury. Still, it’s the kind of answer Steve could never give. His love is not unselfish. “Sorry about your desk,” he says, reaching for the door.

            “Hazard of the trade. Steve?”

            He looks back.

            Fury asks, “Got your head on right?”

            Steve answers, “No.”

            “Fair enough.” Fury nods to him, and Steve leaves.

 

When Steve enters the locker room, he knows that Natasha and Clint were both talking about him.

            “The heart wants what the heart wants,” Natasha says to Clint, zipping her boots up to her knees.

            “He’s two. He does _not_ want an Iron Man doll for Christmas.”

            “Sure, break a toddler’s heart. And I’m the cold one.”

            “What do you think, Cap?” asks Clint, twirling an arrow in his fingers the way a cheerleader would a baton. “Do I break down, give the kid the futurist’s cuddly pint sized version and betray everything I believe in?”

            Steve opens his locker, replying, “The futurist is our friend, and he kept us all out of prison. I think we all need to stop mouthing off about Tony, be grateful he didn’t throw away the key, and get on with our lives.” He glances back. “So yeah, get him the doll.” Steve tugs his shirt over his head. “I’m fine, by the way.”

            “Who said you weren’t?”

            Steve grabs a sleeveless tee from the locker, tugging it on, and turns around. “I know that I’m just here to break things and tell people where to set up a perimeter, and you two are the super spies, but seriously? You realize that every time you’re talking about me and I walk in, you start talking about Nathaniel. Literally every time.”

            They glance at each other, and Natasha says, “So next time we’ll talk about Cooper.”

            Steve thinks about taping up his knuckles before heading into the gym, but then he figures, _why bother_. “You good?” Clint asks.

            “Nope,” Steve answers. He closes the locker and starts to walk past them. But then he stops by where they’re sitting, and raises his shoulder. “Told him everything, put it all out there, he still left. That’s what happened.”

            Natasha says, “So him and Sharon. I hate them both.”

            “No. No hating anybody. Just the way it worked out.”

            Clint says, “Who are we talking about?”

            Natasha gives him an _are you kidding me_ look, and Steve says flatly, “Anyway. I’m going to go work out some aggression. You’ve finally got the car working, right, Nat?”

            “You bet.”

            “Okay. Later, folks.”

            He’s almost at the door when she calls, “I’m sorry, Steve.”

            He shrugs, using his body to open the door. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He lets it swing closed behind himself, half in the world, half out.

 

After the fourth bag goes flying off the chain, Steve squints up at the hook. They must have a better system than this. Tony must have some kind of high tech equipment that would be more of a match for Steve.

            In fact, Steve’s certain that he must. And still, he probably prefers this. He’d just get frustrated with an enemy he could never beat.

            _You cracked the Hulk’s capsule. Is there anything you can’t destroy at this point_?

            He hears the door open, and Clint says, “You up for a round?”

            Steve turns. Barton’s changed into workout gear, all black. He’s already stretching. Steve knows it’s from pity. “Probably better that I stick to beating on inanimate objects for now.”

            “Why? Think I can’t take it?”

            “Well—“

            “C’mon, Cap. You’re not afraid of a little sparring with a guy who used to work in a circus, are you? Be a crying shame for that to get around.”

            “To who?” Steve says, amused. “No one wants to admit we’re here.”

            Coming to the middle of the gym, Clint counters, “Yeah, that’ll fly after you tore a new one into Fury’s office.”

            Steve’s not impressed by that. He jiggles his foot a second, then goes to join Clint. “All right, but—“

            “Please, I’m a grown up. Stop pussy footing around.”

            With a little sigh, Steve puts up loosely held fists. Clint raises his hands, and they watch each other a long moment.

            When Steve realizes that Clint will just wait him out, he decides to just give him a tap, show him that he might be in over his head. He throws a fist at Clint’s face.

            So fast it’s shocking, Clint puts his hands together and moves them over Steve’s shoulder as if he’s diving upwards. It throws off Steve’s punch, and Clint uses the momentum to slam his knee at full strength into Steve’s solar plexus.

            It blanks out everything in Steve’s body for a moment, and he falls backwards. Clint jumps over him, somersaulting back up just as Steve hits the mat.

            For a second, Steve simply stares at the ceiling with wide eyes.

            Then Barton’s leaning over him, saying snidely, “I’m sorry—didn’t someone tell me _you_ defeated the Nazis?”

            Steve vaults himself onto his feet with a flip. His chest is still radiating with pain. A lot more cautious this time, he puts his fists back up.

            Circling him, Clint says, “Yeah—there’s a reason they moved me up to the big leagues.” He takes position, watching Steve, and for the first time, Steve actually gets why they nicknamed this guy for a predator. “So, old man, you think—“

            Steve’s fist sails out.

            Clint grabs his wrist, hopping up and twisting his legs around Steve’s other arm. He flips them both over, landing on top of Steve and twisting his arm back.

            Jesus, _that_ stings.

            Then Clint is off him again, bouncing a little on his feet. “Buddy, I been training with Natasha Romanoff for over a decade. You gotta be quicker than that.”

            Steve climbs back to his feet, saying, “I’m really more worried about your wife than anything else. She’s not going to be too happy with me if I send you home in a full body cast.”

            Clint waves him off. “Ah, she already hates you. Come on, old man. Hit me.”

            Taking a deep breath, Steve feints with his left, then taps Clint in the ribs with the right. No missing the wince there—he can’t help but think the word ‘fragile’ and he gets upset. So his next blow isn’t thought about, it’s just a haymaker that’s basically telegraphed.

            Clint swings up under his arm, hopping on top of his shoulders. He shoves Steve’s arm down so hard that he almost dislocates it, and Steve drops automatically, the two of them tumbling to the floor.

            Only this time they’re up at the same moment and Steve just reacts, spinning and kicking Barton in the chest.

            The man goes flying a good twelve feet. He hits the ground with a hard thud.

            Steve cringes when Clint lays there on his back, unmoving. “You okay?” Steve asks.

            The only sound Clint can make for a moment is a low whine. Lifting a hand, he gasps, “Yeah—I’m good. Hey—I was gonna do this—“ He coughs a few times. “Manly thing where we—hit each other a few times and then I’d talk to you about something, but—“ More coughing. “Maybe I should just tell you the thing I was going to tell you now. Just in case my ribs are broke.”

            “Not really in a mood for talking.”

            “Yeah, I figured. So you can stand there and be—you know—super powered or whatever—and listen for a second while I—wheeze this out.”

            Steve sticks his hands in his pockets and says cautiously, “Okay.”

            Clint sucks in a breath, either choosing not to get up or unable to, Steve can’t tell. “I didn’t go after Laura. She went after me.”

            “Sorry?”

            “When we met—I was just joining SHIELD. She lived in the same building as me, and she was—you know, one of those things I liked about going home at the end of the day. She was studying all the time for her degree, and it was summer, so it was too hot in the building. I’d come home and she’d be sitting on the steps, and I’d say hi, and then one day she started talking to me. I can’t even remember what it was about. Except it’s three hours later, the sun’s going down, and I’m supposed to be on a plane to Sao Paolo in five hours. And the whole trip to Sao Paolo, all I can think about is this gorgeous, great woman, and how I’m never going to have someone like that.”

            Uncomfortable, Steve says, “C’mon. You’re pretty terrible, but you’re not that bad.”

            Clint pushes himself up on his elbows with a groan, and raises a brow at Steve. “You’ve seen my file.” He points a thumb at himself. “The word ‘carny’ is _literally_ in there. I fight with a bow and arrow, Steve. You ever heard ‘don’t bring a bow and arrow to a gun fight?’ No, you haven’t, because nobody’s that stupid. Except for me. Add in my family—my asshole brother—and all the shit I’ve done—and no way was I ever going to get a woman like that.”

            Sighing, Steve says hopefully, “Could we not just hit each other?”

            “I think you hit my quota, man. Anyway—I get back from the job, and I think to myself, be nice, be polite, don’t say anything else to her. You’re making a jackass of yourself if you do. Only she’s passed that test she spent all that time studying for, and she had the biggest smile on her face, and I couldn’t help myself. I knew better. God, I knew better. Except we started talking again, and then we had a night.” Clint lifts a hand. “The kind of night you never tell anyone about, because that’s your wife, but let’s just say, it was a _night_. And what’d I do the next day?”

            Quietly, Steve says, “Left.”

            “Of course I did. Because who the hell would want in on this? I’m not exactly a catch. Snuck out of there like a douchebag. And what did she do?”

            “Well, I know she married you—“

            “Came banging on my door about two hours later. So I go out the fire escape. And that’s how I came in and out of the building for the next week. Fire escape. Until one night, she’s standing there waiting for me, and I figure she’s going to read me the riot act. Wouldn’t be the first time a woman had done that to me. So I get ready to stand there and take it. She walks right up to me, and says, ‘You—are a chickenshit.’ And walks away. That’s it. A whole week. I thought she was nuts. That’s all she wanted to tell me? I tried to forget it. But man—it started _eating_ at me. Because she was right. This woman—this perfect woman, what she thinks about me is that I’m a coward. That’s not how I thought of myself. Fucked up? Yeah. Weird past? Absolutely. But not a coward. It’s like a brainworm I can’t get rid of. Always there. Takes me another week, and I can’t take it. I go back to her place, and I tell her, ‘I’m not a chickenshit.’ And she asks me why I think I’m not. Arms crossed. I don’t know, but there’s something so sexy about her when she crosses her arms. Drives me nuts. And all of a sudden I’m telling her everything. I mean—what I do, where I’m from, SHIELD—I’m telling this woman who’s almost a stranger everything about myself. And I’m telling her so that she gets it, so she gets that I’m not scared, that I’m trying to—I dunno, keep her safe by not going any further with her.”

            Clint sits all the way up, rubbing at his chest. Steve asks, “So what did she do?”

            Clint looks up at him from under his brows. “Told me I was a chickenshit. I said, didn’t you hear everything I said? And she said, yeah, I heard you, only you’re still a chickenshit. Said that you don’t protect a person by leaving them alone. You’re just protecting yourself, trying to make yourself feel better about it. Said some people are so used to being freaks that they’re too scared of being happy to even try. People like us get so used to being alone that it’s what’s safe. I said she was full of it. Said I wasn’t scared. She said, you’re not scared then let’s go on a date. And I ran out of there with my tail between my legs. Because she was right and I was scared.” Clint tests the ground, then shakily pushes himself to his feet. “But every day, there she was on the front steps when I came home. Said she’d give me a month to get my act together and ask her out, or she’d move onto a guy who didn’t hate himself so much.”

            “How many days before you cracked?”

            “Twenty nine,” Clint admits, and Steve drops his head, trying not to grin. “Guys like me—the ones who think we’re too broke for anything other than this—we just need patience. Like—maybe not a century’s worth, but—he’ll be back. That’s all I’m saying.”

            Steve gives him a sideways look. “You’re telling me you and Laura lived happily ever after?”

            Clint scoffs. “Don’t be juvenile. There’s no such thing as happily ever after. When she and I fight, it’s worse than any alien invasion. I’m stuck halfway across the country from my family, and she’s pissed at me like you wouldn’t believe.” Clint shakes his head. “But she’s my _wife_. And we have the three most beautiful kids in the world. That’s better than happily ever after, because it’s fucking real.” Clint lets out a grunt, and nods, turning away. “Okay. Good talk. I’m gonna go—find some morphine or something.”

            For a moment, Steve stands there. Then he catches up to Clint. “You think Nat would be up for getting some drinks with us?”

            “Probably. Lie to her and tell her I put up more of a fight, okay? She won’t believe it, but leave me with my dignity.”

            Steve pats him on the back, and Clint groans. “You did fine, pal,” Steve says. “You did fine.”


	12. Miss Jackson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody--just wanted to send a special thank you to everyone who commented yesterday. I needed a pick me up, and I think we all know the power of a few kind words. As always, you're treasures.   
> Okay, back to our regularly scheduled unsentimental programming.

He’s trapped.

            He can’t move his arms or legs. He can’t lift his head.

            He gasps for breath, calling for help. “Is anybody—is anyone there?”

            He hears the click of heels on flat ground. Then the beautiful face of Cherise Jackson leans over him, brows drawn with pity. He tries to wriggle away from her, but he can’t move.

            Running a hand over his hair, she murmurs, “It’s okay—you’re with me. You’re safe.” She bends down and kisses his cheek. “You’ll always be safe with me.”

            “You’re safe,” another voice says, and Steve looks to the side. It’s a young woman, brown hair, maybe once she was pretty. She’s corpse grey now, the way a body gets after a few days. Mia Payne. “You’re here with us.”

            When Steve wakes and grabs his shield, it’s _his_ shield. He relaxes immediately, blinking at the darkness. He flips it up in the air, grabbing it in one handed, and settles back against the pillows. The clock says it’s 03:35. His alarm is set for twenty five minutes from now.

            He has definitely had worse nights. He nearly slept all the way through this time.

            Steve turns onto his back, lifting his knees. He rests the shield against it, studying it. Unbidden, his fingers trace the star.

            “I carry it in my heart,” he murmurs, and sighs a little. Not exactly unhappy.

            He has the job. He has his friends. Maybe someday he’ll be the person he was again. It’s not what he wants, but maybe he needs to learn to just buckle down and accept it. He took his shot—he was brave—and it didn’t work.

            No use crying over spilled milk. Besides, if there is a heaven, a dubious proposition at most, his mother is certainly relieved.

            For some reason, that cracks Steve up. He laughs softly in the early morning, alone in his room.

           

“I’m gonna buy him the doll.”

            Steve glances up from the shield he’s been flipping between his hands. “Yeah?”

            Clint shrugs his right shoulder. “Yeah. What the hell.”

            “I’m sorry to hear you’ve decided to sacrifice your ideals.”

            “Old man, it’d be really easy to push you off.”

            “I’d probably just survive it.” 

            They’re sitting on top of the Ritz Carlton. The jet dropped them off before dawn and they’ve been waiting ever since, occasionally chatting, but both of them equally all right with silence. It’s coming up on 13:30, and they’re both in their masks and smart tactical suits, preparing to infiltrate.

            “You keep playing with that, you’ll wear through it.”

            Steve glances at the shield. He’s insisted on bringing it. The compromise he had to make was to paint it black. The colour should fade in a few days, and he understands the need for secrecy. But he wants the old colours back.

            “That what your mother tell you?” Steve replies flatly.

            “About my bow? Sure.”

            “Please don’t tell me you refer to your—“ He puts his hand to his ear, listening as the agents below remark on the approach of Jackson’s motorcade.

            She travels with six cars. Steve would say it’s excessive, but considering the enemies she and her cousin have made, he thinks it might be lowballing things. SHIELD agents have surrounded the building. He and Clint will take the condo, with 37 on standby to extract them.

            “Just out of—ha—mild curiosity,” says Clint, “what do we do if the five guards she’s got with her have taken the elixir of eternal life or whatever?”

            Steve listens as he’s told all but two of the vehicles have broken off. According to previous satellite photos, only the two cars will pull up to the building. Jackson will get out with five of her men—always men—and enter the Ritz Carlton through the residents’ lobby. The others will move a half block away, the rest of the guards will get out and take up position around the building, and the drivers will circle in case the need to leave swiftly arises.

            It’s all well and good if the enemy was coming in from the ground.

            “Do that flipping thing you did on me the other week.”

            “On how many?” Clint asks, securely attaching the grappling line. They are going to come in from the south side of the tower, so as not to attract undue attention. Well, more than they are about to.

            “I think you’re selling yourself short. I’ll take the big one, you can take the rest.”

            “Gotta tell you, Steve, I think they’re all going to be big ones.” Clint shakes his head. “A whole floor, man. She has an entire floor. Do you know how much money that is? Laura’s salary, she’d make just enough to keep her and the kids in a two bedroom in Hoboken. Unbelievable.”

            “Well, that’s the upside of the two income family, Clint.”

            “Still pisses me off.”

            Steve flicks open the little display pad he has. He watches footage from downstairs as two cars pull up in front of the residents’ entrance. Two men get out first, not dressed like guards, just men in suits chatting amiably. A third gets out, reaching inside, and offers his hand.

            Cherise Jackson steps out, casting him an absent minded smile as she talks on her phone. Two other men join them from the second car, and they walk inside, the men being casual about surrounding her.

            “Huh,” says Clint. “That’s Remy.”

            “You know one of them?”

            Clint nods, leaning over and flicking back through the recording. He taps on the face of a guy who looks about six five, shoulders nearly as wide as Steve’s, a purple blotch on the back of his neck. “Former SHIELD.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “Well, he trained for it. Didn’t pass the psych exam.” Clint frowns. “Last I heard, he was working private security. Cut someone’s head off.”

            Steve lifts a hand. “I’m sorry, but—“ He gives it a second, then says, “ _You_ passed SHIELD’s psych exam?”

            Clint barks, and comes back, “Did _you_?”

            “They’re in the elevator. Yeah, they all look pretty big. Maybe I’ll take the guys, and you can just lock down Jackson.”

            Steve tests his grappling line, while Clint says, “Yeah, maybe we’ll do that. After all, she got the better of you last time. Wouldn’t want to put you in a situation where you’re uncomfortable.”

            “You’re a real hero, Barton.” Steve flips the shield into the pouch on his back, getting ready.

            They listen to the surveillance devices set against the window as the elevator opens. Jackson says, “One of you make some tea. The rest of you, can you back the fuck away from me? Not in the mood.” Clint raises his brows at Steve, and Steve nods.

            Tethered to the roof, they climb over the side. With careful, rhythmic motions, they drop down a few feet at a time. It’s a good thing they don’t have to go too far. They’re in the smart suits that camouflage against their environments, but New York’s not exactly known for being unawares these days.

            They go down two floors, listening to Jackson talking on the phone to someone about a client who’s late on a payment. “I don’t care if he has to roll over an orphanage to get the oil underneath,” she says in exasperation. “Tell him that if I don’t see that money in six hours, I’m sending it up to Curtiss, and he can decide which province to blow up. Understood? Fantastic.” There’s a clatter as she tosses aside the phone. “Good lord, it’s like we haven’t killed people for less.”

            Clint pulls out his own display screen. It shows footage from a micro camera placed on the window. Angling it to show Steve, they take in the situation. Four of the men and Jackson are in the sprawling living room. She’s flipping through a book of some kind at the back. The men have located themselves at atleast ten foot distances from her.

            Steve thinks about it, and says, “Be a shame if they didn’t get their tea.”

            Smirking, Clint says, “My thoughts exactly.”

            So they wait, hanging there in absolute silence for two minutes. Then a man says, “Tea, Miss Jackson.”

            Clint holds up the display screen, showing Steve as each person gets a cup of tea. Steve nods, and Clint closes up the display. He pulls out the trigger, and blows two of the windows.

            They leap inside and as they let go of their lines, Steve’s pulling out his shield and Clint’s whipping out his bow.   

            The men are spinning, dropping their tea. Jackson’s splattered with steaming hot tea and yelps, “Shit!” throwing up her hands.

            The first thing Clint does is put an arrow right through her dominant one.

            She starts screaming, and Steve flings his shield, bouncing it off the head of the closest man. The sound it makes—oh _God_ , he’d almost say it was better than sex. It’s been a year and a half since he last heard his shield echo off human bone. It’s like coming home. He throws himself out of the way of the guy in the grey suit barreling towards him, twisting in the air to grab his shield as the man he hits falls like a sack of potatoes.

            Clint’s fired an arrow at one man’s chest, but it’s done nothing, and he says almost calmly, “They got vests.”

            “Uh huh,” Steve replies, swinging around and clocking the grey suited man in the back of the head with all his strength. The man flies like a rag doll against the wall.

            Clint’s firing above the shoulders now, two guys of his own down, and he says, “Don’t, Remy—“ But the man moves, and Clint lets the string go.

            It’s over abruptly, and Steve steps over the body of the first man he hit.

            Jackson’s run to the back of the room, seemingly for her phone, and Clint has another arrow on his bow. “Lady—I wouldn’t move.”

            She comes up short. Her clothes are splashed with blood and tea, her brown eyes wide. She’s grabbing her right wrist, the arrow sticking through it. “You _shot_ me!” she says in disbelief.

            “Life’s tough,” Steve replies, walking towards her.

            Jackson’s panting, her hand dripping blood on the carpet. “You shot me with a goddamn bow and arrow!”

            “Yeah, well, two of those kids in Paraguay had heart attacks and died,” Clint says, “so you’re not going to find me real sympathetic.”

            They’re advancing on her, and she suddenly lifts both her hands. “Okay, stop. Stop. _Stop_. I’ll deal. I will deal. I’ll deal.”

            Clint and Steve glance at one another, and Steve shakes his head. “Nah. That was too easy. I think you need some time in a box—“

            Jackson moves back between a white ottoman and sofa, staining them with blood. “No, goddamn it! Listen to me—I will _deal_. I can’t go to prison. I can’t.”

            “Oh, we’re going to deal,” Steve says. “But you’ll be doing it from the comfort of a SHIELD detention facility. At least until we get you to the Raft—“

            “No,” she says desperately. “No, listen—I made a promise, and I don’t want to die. I made a promise, and I can’t break it.”

            “My heart bleeds for you,” Clint says, keeping a loose grip on the bow.

            Jackson finally reaches the wall, her hands held out. “I told my mother—I promised her, I promised her that when I—went in with Curtiss, I’d never go to jail. I can’t do that to her. I can’t. Please, I promised her.”

            Steve flips his shield back into the pouch on his back. “I’d feel a lot more sympathy for your mother if she hadn’t raised the kind of woman who’s awfully nonchalant about keeping slaves.”

            “That’s valid, I understand you’re upset, but my usefulness has an expiration date and we all know it. You must be picking up Karl right now. Aren’t you? The conference. Romanoff’s not here, so she must be there. You think he’ll give up Curtiss, but he won’t. He’s too scared of him. It’ll take days before you get him to say anything, and by then Curtiss will be gone and there’s going to be _craters_. As soon as Curtiss hears that Karl and I have been picked up, he’ll move. I have no idea where he’ll go. We set it up that way, so he’d be safe. I can tell you where he is right now, I can take you to him—“

            “You can tell us where he is,” Steve replies.

            “But we’re sure as hell not stupid enough to take you with us,” Clint adds.

            “Then good luck getting to him. You think we didn’t plan for this contingency? We knew you were on your radar, so we’ve aimed everything we’ve got at SHIELD.”

            Steve doesn’t rise to the bait, but Clint asks, “What does that mean?”

            Jackson answers, but she looks at Steve as she speaks. “Did you get a sample from Liechtenstein?” She nods a little. “Yeah. I’ve got thirty one crime lords with empires, super strength, and a powerful habit, and we’ve been holding out on them to make sure they do what we say. I go missing for more than four hours, then Curtiss gives the word and we let them _loose_ , big man.”

            Shaking his head, Steve counters, “If you think you’ve got that much leverage over us, you wouldn’t try to deal.”

            “Nuclear option was Curtiss’ idea, not mine. I don’t do well in chaos. I like being in control, I like power. I have no desire to live in anarchy.” She shivers with disgust. “Bad enough being this close to Brooklyn. Thanks for nothing, by the way, hero.”

            “I don’t buy it, Cherise. You wouldn’t give up Curtiss this fast.”

            “The hell I wouldn’t. Tell me I don’t do jail time, and I give him to you on a silver platter.”

            “Lady,” Clint laughs, “do you really think we’re going to let you loose just to take over your cousin’s business? C’mon, man, let’s get her in the air and see how interrogation does with her.”

            Jackson puts her uninjured hand to her forehead, shutting her eyes. “Fuck,” she says, thinking furiously. “Fuck.” She opens her eyes, and they flit back and forth. “Okay. I take you to Curtiss, and you promise me that you’ll take my cooperation into consideration.”

            “Nope,” Steve says, pulling out zip ties.

            “Jesus Christ! You want him, you have to do it now or he’s going to rain missiles on your entire organization, and I don’t intend on being at fucking ground zero for it!” Jackson shrinks back from Steve, shaking her head. Suddenly, she says, “Fury! Ask Fury. Ask him before you do something stupid. Ticking clock.” She looks at Steve and gives her head a hard shake. “I am not dying today because you don’t care how many people get killed, just so you can finish your stupid fucking mission.”

            Steve stills.

            Fuck.

            Jackson sees she’s made a dent, and she pleads, “Just call Fury. Ask him if he’ll deal. We’d have to go now—it’s in Oregon, okay? It’s not that far on one of those jets of yours. I’d have to get you through the front door because it’s a full body biometric scan, but once it’s open, you send in as many people as you want. It’s the main base. Everything you need to know about the organization is there. Send half of SHIELD with us, it doesn’t matter to me. As many people as you want. I just have to get you through the door, and then you do whatever you want with me, Curtiss, whatever. I just don’t want to die.” She takes a breath. “Please. I don’t want to die. If you take me back to SHIELD, we’re all dead. I just don’t want to die.”

            Steve and Clint glance at each other.

            He sees it in Clint’s eyes. _Can’t hurt to call Fury_.

            Steve sighs, and says, “Keep an eye on her.”

            “Will do.”

            As he moves away to make the call, he hears Jackson say, “Can I see a doctor or something?”

            Clint says, “You want an arrow in the other hand too?”

            Jackson doesn’t say anything else, and Steve makes the call.

 

Three hours later, they’re flying into the Rocky Mountains.

            Clint’s sitting next to Cherise, who’s cuffed. There’s a bandage around her right hand. She’s changed out of her destroyed dress into long flowing slacks and a peach coloured blouse. She looks wan and nervous, trembling a little. Steve sits across from her, watching every move.

            Watching her like—well, a hawk, Clint says, “She’s definitely playing us, Cap.”

            “Yep,” Steve says. “Only question is how.”

            Jackson shakes her head slightly. “I just don’t want to die,” she whispers. She leans forward, resting her head against her good hand. “Oh God. Curtiss.”

            “He’s a big boy,” Clint mutters. “He’ll be fine.”

            Jackson looks up, and pleads, “Please don’t hurt him. He needs his medicine. I just—oh Christ, this is a clusterfuck.”

            Steve has to know. “Explain something to me.”

            Turning to him, Jackson says, “What?”

            “Your cousin—he’s a psychopath, and honestly, I don’t think you’re much better. If he’s going to do what you say he is, he’d just consider you collateral damage, and it took you about thirty seconds to turn on him. And you still care about him.”

            “Of course I care about him. He’s my family. I love him.”

            “Bullshit,” Clint says.

            She arches a perfectly plucked brow at him. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

            “Lady—you’ve heard people use the word, but I sure as hell don’t think you know what love means. If you’ve ever actually loved anything, for real, in your life, I’ll eat Cap’s shield.”

            “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”

            “I know enough that you care more about your truly horrifying looking blob of a cousin than the forty kids we pulled out in Chaco, and God only knows how many others you’ve got stashed around the world.”

            Jackson rolls her eyes. “Please. The strong must eat. The rest are meat.”

            “That your company motto?” Steve asks.

            “Yeah, we have it on cards.” Jackson bends over again, her hair falling forward. “God. All that work. Lost because of a couple of urchins. Unbelievable.”

            Clint and Steve catch each other’s eyes, and Steve says, “Yeah. That’s the unbelievable part.”

           

Before Steve unlocks the cuffs, he crouches in front of Jackson. “Let me make this perfectly clear. The second I know you’ve double crossed us, I’m going to put you through a wall.”

            She’s regained some of her composure since they landed. “You’d do that to a lady?”

            “I’m a feminist,” he replies. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Is there _any_ other barrier between us and Curtiss besides the biometric scanner at the front?”

            “Nothing that you can’t break,” Jackson replies. She holds her wrists out. “Please get these goddamn things off me. They’re chafing.”

            “We get to the door, you let us in. If you don’t, if you set off an alarm, I—am going to lose—my patience.”

            She smiles, almost wistfully. “I’d like to see that.”

            “You really wouldn’t,” Steve says grimly. “Are we clear?”

            Jackson turns her hands over. “Crystal.” He reaches for the cuffs, and she says, “Rogers.” He pauses, looking up at her. “Don’t fuck me over here.”

            With a sigh, Steve says, “Miss Jackson, I think you did that to yourself.” He unlocks the cuffs. “A long, long time ago.”

            They’ve landed deep in the Rockies. As the back door opens, Jackson shivers, and Steve offers her the coat she asked for. He’s checked it, scanned it, done everything short of pulling it apart. He can tell the air is thin.

            “We’re right behind you,” Clint says. “Agents already in place.”

            Four other jets are just out of sight of the small building. Steve knows the majority of the facility must be underground. There’s no road access here—it’s by air or nothing.

            “Well, she’ll holler when it all goes wrong,” Steve says, taking Jackson by the elbow and guiding her off the jet.

            “She’s got more dignity than that,” Jackson mutters.

            “Yeah, sounded like it when I shot you,” Clint calls.

            Jackson glances back over her shoulder. “Yeah, because you _shot_ me.” Finding her footing in the snow, somehow walking as gracefully as always in those high heeled boots, she looks up at Steve. “Want me to take your arm, Mr. Rogers?”

            He grits his teeth, and says, “If you’d be so kind.”

            She slips her arm through his, and God, it would be an easier world to live in if every terrible person just reflected that on the outside. Even when she’s surrounded by SHIELD agents, probably about to face a long prison term in a place where they sure as hell don’t allow high heels, she’s poised, even elegant.

            Steve really can’t stomach the idea of hitting a woman, but he wishes Natasha were here so he could watch this woman be hit.

            _Yeah, you’re real progressive, Stevie_.

            They’re walking from the helipad, where the guards have already been neutralized. “There’ll be two more at the front,” Jackson says.

            Steve nods. He’s got one of his faces on. He would really like to have his shield with him right now, but all he has is the quarter shield. Too obvious, walking up to the Power Broker’s front door with that big disc on his back.

            He knows this is about to go wrong. Things usually do. She is definitely playing them, and Steve’s prepared for that. But just because it’s a trap doesn’t mean it still doesn’t need to be sprung. Power Broker Inc. needs to be wiped off the map. If he needs to be a sacrifice or bait or whatever it is that’s needed, he’ll do that.

            It’s his job.

            Besides, what else has he got going?

            “Penny for your thoughts,” says Jackson.

            “Mountains.”

            “What about them?”

            “I’d say four out of five of every enemy I’ve had, the ones who fancy themselves super villains, they always build hide outs in the mountains. Why is that? What about this does it for you?”

            She shrugs as they come through the trees, walking towards the little grey building. “Easy. Isolation. And grim majesty.” She elbows him lightly. “Please, Captain America. You’re not the only one who understands the importance of imagery.”

            The two guards she promised are standing outside with rifles. They’re wearing the same all black outfits the ones in Liechtenstein were, the same slick helmets. Jackson is unphased, simply saying, “Boys,” as they approach the doors.

            They step aside. Jackson slips her arm away from Steve’s, and moves away from him. He keeps an eye on her, and watches the two guards from the corner of his eyes.

            Jackson steps up to the door, laying both her hands on them. Blue lights come from all sides, running over her, lingering on her face. The same disembodied voice from Liechtenstein says, “Cherise Jackson.”

            The second the doors part, Steve has his shield flipped open. He bounces it off the two guards, reaching up to catch it as they crumple into the snow.

            And in his ear Clint says, “Cap, we got incoming—“

            Steve growls, “I knew it,” and goes to grab Jackson.

            She grabs him first, and before Steve can react, she’s thrown him off his feet with one hand into the building. His insides lurch with surprise. Steve’s flying through the air, and then he strikes a wall and falls downwards, like a bird hitting a window.

            He falls a good forty feet before smacking against the ground. Catching himself with his hands, he finds himself totally surrounded by rifles, and they’re all pointed right at him.

            _Well, this went sideways. Yet again_.

            Trap had to be sprung. That’s just the nature of the gig, and he’s not all that put out about it. They’re in a large room beneath the surface, grey and strangely lit. Steve’s basically dropped through a large hole in the ceiling that not even he could jump back up through. Lifting his hands, Steve starts to get to his feet.

            “Stay down,” someone snarls, and before he can act, he’s being punched across the face with what feels like a steel girder. His lip splits open, and he hits the ground.

            But when he looks up, it’s only one of the guards, uncurling a fist.

            Ah. That makes things slightly more complicated.

            “Just out of idle curiosity,” Steve asks, “how many of you have had the procedure?”

            “All of them.”

            He looks up. Cherise Jackson is walking down a spiral staircase off to the side. She’s shed her jacket, and she looks just as slim and lovely as ever, the picture of grace. But she threw Steve like he weighed all of ten pounds.

            “You see, Mr. Rogers—the mortality rate of the procedure isn’t fifty percent. It’s ten. The good doctor is a genius.” The guards part for her, and she walks towards Steve, hands in her pockets. Her heels click slowly against the ground. “We only kill the ones I know will be a problem for us further down the line.”

            Steve lifts his head at the sound of an explosion outside. “You—feel like sharing the plan with me?”

            Jackson shrugs. “I don’t need to attack SHIELD. SHIELD came to my home turf. And like I said—I’ve got a lot of bad men jonesing for their medicine. If I asked them to take care of a little problem for me, they’re more than happy to fall in line.”

            She’s dropped the pretense of saying ‘we.’

            Steve says, “You’re the Power Broker.”

            Smiling crookedly, she replies, “No shit.”

            “So—what? Your cousin got the starter version, and you got the new and improved serum, took the business out from under him.”

            Jackson lets her head fall back, and she laughs. “Oh—Mr. Rogers. Just when I think you might be smarter than you look.” She bends down, her hands on her knees, looking a little amused. “Try again.”

            He looks at her. Her gorgeous, perfect face. And those eyes—

            He remembers thinking that she and her cousin had the same eyes.

            Steve drops his head for a second. Boy, does he feel dumb. “You’re Curtiss Jackson.”

            She smiles, and says, “I prefer _Miss_ Jackson.”

            Then he’s hit across the back of the head so hard that he hears it echo before he loses consciousness.


	13. End Game

Steve comes to on the ground. Everything about his head hurts. Even his eyeballs feel too big for their sockets.

            He hasn’t been knocked unconscious like that since—he can’t remember. Maybe that has something to do with the head injury.

            “Clint,” he mumbles. “Come in.”

            There’s just a ringing in his ears, and he doesn’t think it’s his comms. Steve tries to roll over, but he’s stuck. Or more accurately, his hands are.

            He opens his eyes, vision swimming. The first thing he sees is the crooked angle of the floor. Second are his hands, in a block of cement. No, not cement. Metal? Steve squints, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

            “At your leisure, Mr. Rogers.” The voice, pleasant and mocking, helps to rouse him.

            Steve pulls himself onto his knees, taking in his situation. His wrists are trapped in a grey metal block on the ground with a control panel on top. It’s blinking.

            “Be very careful, Mr. Rogers. You try tearing your way out of that, it’ll blow. You might walk away, but you’ll have to find yourself a nice set of robot hands to maneuver with for the rest of your days.”

            He looks up, finding her. They’re in a huge room with pipes running up above them. The ceiling must be at least six storeys up. As far as Steve can tell, they’re alone. Just him in an exploding stockade, and Jackson across the room from him, sprawled across a large chair that has a back four feet high.

            Shaking his head, Steve says, “I’m sorry—I might be concussed here, but are you actually sitting on a throne?”

            She shrugs shamelessly, and says, “Hail to the queen.”

            Steve blinks a few times, swallowing to try and help with the ringing in his ears. “So what’s going on outside?”

            Jackson looks upwards, and thinks about it. “Well—if the progress reports I’m getting are correct—“ She lifts a tablet. “Three of those five jets you brought with you have been destroyed. We don’t take prisoners because—I mean, why would we? I’ve got Captain America, it’s not like I need to fill out my collection with ‘standard SHIELD agent.’ Ah—oh, looks like Barton’s killed a few of my people with his bow and arrows, but says here he just got shoved off the side of the mountain, so hopefully that crosses him off my list.” She drops the tablet in her lap. “Though I would have liked to see that for myself.” She peels the bandage off her hand, and tosses it to the cold grey ground. “After all. The motherfucker shot me.” She lifts her hand, wiggling her fingers at Steve. From thirty feet away, he can see that the wound has completely healed. “All better.”

            “What a relief.” Steve sighs, and decides to get settled in. Keep her talking, assess the situation, look for an opening. Instead of kneeling, he sits, pulling his legs under himself. “What now?”

            “We wait.”

            “For what?”

            She just smiles, dangling her leg over the side of the chair.

            Steve lets out a breath, then says, “So—Cherise—looking good.”

            “Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself, in an utterly generic, kind of dreadfully boring way.” She nestles against the severe looking chair, studying him. “Not one for blondes, myself. I like my men a little rougher around the edges. And not that big. Men who look like you—always something to prove.”

            “Since you bring it up—speaking of big guys—“

            He raises a brow, checking to see if she’ll talk about it. Jackson is nonplussed. “You mean Curtiss. Curtiss Jackson, the Power Broker. You’ve seen the pictures.” She plays with her nails, checking each one. “That poor fool spent most of his life trying to prove himself. Make himself bigger. Harder. Meaner. Anything to keep people from seeing what he really was.”

            “You?”

            “No—weak.” Jackson shrugs. “And yes—me. He equated being _this_ with weakness. Never big enough, never enough money, never enough power—always thinking—if I don’t do this—people will look at me, and they’ll figure me out. Like they all had x-ray vision and could see what was really inside.” Jackson snorts softly, a world removed from the man she’s describing. “That moron was so set on proving himself to be a real man that he near beat Dr. Malus to death for refusing to give him the serum in its first iteration. So Malus gave him the treatment, and—“ She puffs out her cheeks, spreading her hands. “Boom.”

            “So you actually--?”

            “Blew up like a human marshmallow? Yeah. That was my life for about a year. Couldn’t move, couldn’t take care of myself—only thing that kept people from taking advantage and killing me was fear. Knowing that I always managed to get ahead somehow, and if they went behind my back on this—“ She smiles, showing a bit of a dimple. “Two tried. I’ve got an office somewhere that you don’t need to know about, and I keep their incisors in a paperweight there.”

            Steve can’t help but be fascinated. She’s a horror. She is. But yeah, he understands her too. “Was there ever actually a Cherise?” Her eyes narrow, and he says, “I mean—was there a Cherise before you?”

            “You mean my cousin.” Jackson nods, bringing her legs off the side of the chair. She turns to face Steve, crossing her legs at the knees. “My best friend. Had my back from the day I was born, and I had hers. Put me in her dresses when we were babies. Kept my secrets, even when I was lying to myself. And there I am, unable to even lift my head, and she ends up in the bed next to me, dying of breast cancer.” She bites the side of her mouth, thinking back on it. “She was my best friend. She was the person I suppose I always wished I was. Died about halfway through my year of hell, and then all I had was six months to just think. And I came to a whole host of realizations.”

            “Obviously wasn’t the one to renounce your life of crime.”

            “No, baby. I’m good at what I do. Couldn’t do anything else if I tried. That I could accept about myself. Everything else—it took me to a place no one should be. Frozen in my own body, all because I couldn’t stand the thought of people seeing me as a sissy or tranny or whatever the fuck they wanted to call me. Here I am fooling around, calling myself the Power Broker, and it was so pathetic. Everyone had power over me. All because I was scared of what they thought.” Jackson raises her shoulders. “So I told Malus that he had a new job. Don’t just fix me. You _fix_ me. Make me what I was always supposed to be. And that’s what he did.” She gestures to herself. “In the end, I shrugged Curtiss Jackson off easier than a jacket. I realized what real power was. It’s knowing who you are, and not giving a damn what anyone else thinks about you. I was never a strong man. But I’m one hell of a strong woman.”

            “If that’s the truth, why aren’t you going around telling people who the Power Broker really is?”

            Jackson chuckles a little. “Because we both live in the real world, as bizarre and grotesque as that might be. I move in circles where I’m surrounded by serial killers, men who can move things with the power of their minds, human beings who can turn into monsters with the _snap_ of their fingers—but a black transwoman? That’s just beyond the pale.” She rolls her shoulders, stretching her hands along the arms of the chair. “So Curtiss Jackson has been a convenient fiction. At least until now.”

            “What happens now?”

            “It’s come to my attention that for some time other parties have suspected my true position in the company, if not also my identity. You being here is just proof of that.”

            “How so?”

            She continues, ignoring the question. “And when you showed up today, I knew that you must be taking Malus too. Karl’s been my number one asset for a long time, but that’s because he fears me. Not because he’s loyal to me. And fear, unfortunately, only takes you so far. I knew that he’d talk. So it was time to just burn it all. Everything in the open, and a demonstration of what I’m capable of, for when the bigots and assholes start to circle like vultures, thinking I’m easy prey, thanks to a biological hiccup.”

            Jackson pushes herself up, taking a few slow steps towards Steve, her hands in her pockets. “People will always be small. Even the ones with power. But I’ll take them all. Because I’ve got something most of them don’t.” She bends down, looking kindly into Steve’s eyes. “I know myself.”

            Steve waits a beat, then adds, “That and you have an army of enhanced.”

            She straightens, and admits, “Yeah, that helps.”

            As she turns and walks back to the chair, Steve says, “You know you’re just putting a target on your back. Even if you take down every SHIELD agent out there, and you won’t, you’re telling the whole world it’s open season on you.”

            Jackson pulls her hair over her shoulder, perching lightly on the chair once more. “No. Well—a little. I’m not worried about SHIELD, Mr. Rogers. I’ve helped create a world that’s considerably more dangerous than what SHIELD could do to me. Those are the people I need to worry about coming for me.” She points behind Steve. “You see those?”

            He looks back over his shoulder. The room has security cameras. Steve inhales deeply, and smiles at her. “So you’re going to kill me and show all your underworld buddies. Just to prove who’s the biggest tough—person.” She laughs a little at his still managing to be polite. “Really, all you’re telling me is that I should try to break out of these things, because even if I don’t have hands, I’ll still have two feet to kick you in the ass with.”

            Jackson eyes him almost affectionately, turning sideways in the chair again. Letting her legs drape over the arm, she says, “Close, Mr. Rogers. Very close.”

            Then she tilts her head back, and calls upwards, “Before you do anything stupid—you should know that the cuffs are rigged to my vitals. I die, I even get knocked unconscious, he starts losing parts. FYI, handsome.”

            Steve doesn’t understand.

            Then he hears the soft sound of someone moving down one of the pipes. Whoever it is drops the last twenty feet, landing nimbly, then emerges from the back of the room.

            Steve doesn’t know whether to be relieved or furious when it’s Bucky. He’s tempted to try and break free just so he can deck him in the jaw. Bucky’s in black tactical gear, hair perfect as fucking ever. He has a semi-automatic in a holster on his back, and he’s obviously armed to the teeth everywhere else too.   

            Jackson studies Bucky and he studies her back. He’s holding a pistol down by his side, and she has a wide smile on her face. “There you are. You get everything you needed?”

            “More or less,” he says, seeming cautious.

            “You know I’m not fucking with you when I say I’ll shear off his limbs, you lay a finger on me.”

            “I do.”

            “Lovely of you to drop in, Buck,” Steve says loudly, and they both look at him. He shrugs, exasperated. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to be the damsel in distress here?”

            “Finally,” Jackson says, “a hole in one, Mr. Rogers.”

            “You’re joking.” Steve’s flabbergasted. He tugs his hands against the cuffs, and the contraption beeps softly.

            This is not how things are supposed to go. For Christ’s sake, he’s Captain America! He’s not the one who gets tied to the train tracks!

            Jackson’s ignoring him again. “Was it The Corporation?”

            “Yes,” Bucky says. “I’m assuming you know the contract is to kill.”

            “Figured it was serious when you sent him in as bait.”

            Steve lifts his head, looking between the two of them. “Bait?” he yelps. “I’m sorry—excuse me, did she just say bait?”

            Bucky shrugs at him with a wince. “Steve, I needed to get near her, and I couldn’t. She’s a lot less cautious around you and wanted to smack SHIELD around to prove a point. That and I needed some time to work out some other stuff too.”

            His jaw is twitching. Steve bends forward, his large hands curling into fists. He can feel all the blood in his body moving upwards, knowing he’s turning bright red.

            “Philadelphia—that whole spiel about what’s good for me—you were setting me loose to be _bait_?” Steve growls.

            Bucky points at him, and says, “Steve, calm down. You could blow up.”

            “You better pray to Christ I do, James Barnes, because otherwise I’m going to start breaking bones—“

            “Anyway,” Bucky says to Jackson. “You fell for it.”

            “No. You did. I’m using him as bait to flush you out.”

            Steve roars, “Does anyone here think I might have just been doing my job, regardless of whatever machinations you have going on?”

            “No,” they say simultaneously.

            “Lady,” Bucky says, “I’ve got you dead to rights. I’ve confirmed all I need to go ahead with the kill.”

            Jackson leans forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. “So why am I not scared,” she purrs.

            “Yeah.” Bucky tilts his head. “Why aren’t you scared?”

            “Because I got exactly what I wanted.”

            “You can’t use Steve against me. I have a gun, he’s not as stupid as he looks, and I think between the two of us, we could take you, juiced up or not.”

            “I’ve already used him against you,” Jackson says, “because you’re here.”

            Steve argues, “I am not a pawn—“

            Bucky says harshly, “Steve, shut up.” He gazes warily at Jackson. After a moment, he raises his chin. “He was never the target.”

            “There you go. You’re smarter than the blonde, and you’re more my type anyways. You’ve spent all this time thinking I’m your target, but Mr. Barnes—you are in fact mine.”

            “Explain.”

            “Simple. The Power Broker scares people, but Cherise Jackson doesn’t. At least not yet. What I need—what I really need—is someone who scares the living bejesus out of every last person on earth. You fit the bill.” Jackson tilts her head, gaze going cold. “I want the Winter Soldier.”

            “Doesn’t exist anymore,” Bucky replies. “Sorry, nobody here but me.” He lifts his gun. “Now, I might not be able to kill you, but I bet I can put a few holes in you while Steve figures a way out of that thing.”

            “Oh, now I’m allowed agency?” Steve says.

            Jackson props her chin up, unphased by everything Bucky has said. “Have you enjoyed the last few years, soldier? Have they been kind to you?” The sides of her mouth turn upwards. “What a pity it will be to forget.”

            Bucky’s gazing at her. Then his eyes widen, and he says, “No—“

            She says, “Longing, rusted—“

            Bucky clamps his hands over his ears, falling back. Steve watches in shock as he starts to scream in protest. Oh Jesus—oh Jesus, she has the words, how did she get the words?

            “Bucky!” Steve screams as the other man staggers away from Jackson. “Keep her out!”

            “Seventeen!” Jackson roars. “Daybreak!”

            Steve’s shouting at the top of the lungs. “Shoot her! Goddamn it, shoot her now!” He yanks at the cuffs, regardless of the way the light on top turns red.

            Bucky throws the gun away from himself, and Steve wants to kill him. Stupid self-sacrificing idiot—

            “Stop,” Bucky pleads, his knees giving. His face is contorted, he looks near tears—

            “Furnace,” Jackson says, getting to her feet. Bucky hits the ground, howling and pulling at his hair. “Nine. Benign. Homecoming.”

            “STOP!” Bucky wails, and Steve decides, _fuck it_ and puts his foot against the cuff, and he really starts to pull.

            He won’t let this happen again. Not ever again, not to Bucky, he can’t, no matter what Bucky’s done to him, no matter his sins—

            Jackson leans down and spits out, “One.” She takes a breath, and the last words emerge on the exhale. “Freight car.”

            The room falls deathly quiet.

            Steve goes still, feeling his breaths push in and out.

            Bucky is huddled in a ball on the floor. His arms are wrapped around himself, a shield against the world.

            Then he unfurls, and lifts his head.

            Steve’s heart plummets to the pit of his stomach. No. Oh God. _No_.

            There is no one home. Bucky has gone, and the Winter Soldier is in his place, empty, waiting. He rises to his feet, gazing blankly forward.

            Jackson steps towards him, and says affectionately, “Good evening, soldier.”

            “Ready to comply,” the Winter Soldier replies.

            “Do you have a knife, soldier?”

            He quickly pats himself down, and withdraws a gleaming, six inch blade. He offers it to her.

            “I want you to cut your face,” Jackson orders.

            “No,” Steve says hoarsely. “Jesus, Bucky—“

            The soldier lifts the knife and cuts into his cheek without flinching. He doesn’t so much as blink as blood begins to spill, only looks to Jackson for orders. She watches him, as the knife slips further in, millimetre by millimetre.

            Steve can’t stand it. “Bucky, stop!”

            The soldier ignores him, and finally Jackson says, “Enough.” He lowers the knife, the lower half of his right cheek now stained with fresh blood. Jackson smiles at him, then nods over to Steve. “You see that man there?”

            The Winter Soldier looks at Steve, and it breaks his heart. There’s no recognition there. Not so much as a glimmer. “My target?”

            “Yes. But I want you to play with him first. We have an audience.” She reaches up, brushing Bucky’s hair back from his forehead. “First I want you to cut his face too, exactly like you did yours.” She puts a gentle hand to his arm, prompting him towards Steve. “Now.”

            Without hesitation, the soldier strides across the room to Steve.

            He’s not panicking. Not outright, not yet. They’ve done this before, and it doesn’t last. “Bucky, it’s me,” says Steve. “It’s me, and you’re _you_ , you’re James Buchanan Barnes, and I need you to—“

            The soldier grabs him roughly by his hair, yanking his head back, and flips the knife over in his hand to get a better grip. Putting it to Steve’s cheek, he pushes the blade in.

            Steve’s eyes water with the pain. He grits his teeth, unable to speak for the moment.

            “Good,” says Jackson. “Enough.”

            The Winter Soldier lets him go and steps away, looking back towards Jackson. Steve sucks in air, his cheek gone warm and wet and tingling. He swallows his spit, wishing he was someone who knew how to just abandon their fear when it’s convenient.  

            She looks Steve over, and says, “When I let him go, you’re going to hurt him. Very badly. Then you’ll kill him.”

            The soldier nods obediently, and Jackson withdraws something from her pocket. One of those little squares she had in Liechtenstein. She presses it, and the cuffs pop loose.

            Steve’s jumped about ten feet away two seconds later, not turning his back on the soldier for a moment. “Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve. You don’t have to do this. I don’t want to hurt you—“

            The Winter Soldier throws the knife at him so fast and hard that Steve barely spins out of the way.

            Then he’s being barreled into, lifted off his feet.

            In that second, he remembers what Clint did to him. Steve’s a big guy, but he’s fast too, and he’s got a steep learning curve. Grabbing the back of the soldier’s head, Steve twists himself under the soldier’s arm and up over his back. He swings a leg around the man’s neck, using the momentum to flip them both over. As he hits the ground on his back, he uses the strength in his legs to send the soldier flying, grabbing the semi-automatic off his back.

            The Winter Soldier strikes the wall, upside down, and Steve’s already run a few feet, dropping the magazine out of the gun. Then he tears the weapon in half.

            Jackson says, “Interesting choice. I would have taken the opportunity to shoot me.”

            “My guess is that SHIELD’s gonna want to have a nice long talk with you,” Steve replies, watching the soldier as he gets to his feet. He throws the mangled pieces of the gun in opposite directions. “Maybe some vivisection. Whatever it is—“ The soldier comes stalking at him, giving his head an angry shake, and Steve puts his fists up. “I want it to last until you _wish_ I’d killed you.”

            The soldier withdraws another knife, flipping it in his hand, and Steve takes a deep breath, inching back for every stride the man takes. He can’t hurt Bucky. Well—yes, he can hurt Bucky, and Christ knows he could take it, but he can’t kill him, and the last few times they fought like this, it always came pretty close to a draw. The Winter Soldier has just been reset, and Steve doesn’t think saying his name or reminding him who he is will shake him the way it has in the past.

            Doesn’t mean he can’t try.

            “Bucky, you know you don’t want to—“ The knife comes down at him, and Steve has to counter with a flurry of punches, twists, blocks.

            When it’s like this, there’s no telling one movement from the next. The Winter Soldier is so fast and ruthless that Steve can’t distinguish one action from another. The knife jumps from one hand to the other, and they’re fighting one another so quickly that Steve can only try to protect himself.

            And Bucky, though if Steve puts him first he is certainly going to die.

            Last time, it took a blow to the head to snap him out of this. But every time Steve tries to punch him, the Winter Soldier parries, nicking Steve’s arm with every attempt. Steve barely feels it.

            He twists his ankle around the soldier, trying to lock him closer, pushing the knife up and away from the both of them. “Bucky! Snap out of it!” The Winter Soldier tosses the knife to the other hand and uses his fist to punch Steve in the ribs. He feels a couple of them bend in, but none of them give. The soldier’s orders were to hurt him first, before killing him, and Steve understands that he’s supposed to be played with, like a cat with a mouse, before the final blow comes.

            Frustrated, Steve uses the full force of his elbow, slamming into the soldier’s solar plexus, sending the man reeling back a few feet. Steve scrambles away from him, facing him warily.

            “Semyon and J!” Steve says. “The Red Sox, you fucking traitor. You’ve got your mother’s smile.”

The soldier flutters the knife in his hand, coming at him once more. Steve hisses, trying to keep his distance and they move in an ever tightening circle.

            “The cave! Gabe Jones, and Lidiya, and Budapest—“ He jumps back as the Winter Soldier swings the knife at him in a wide arc. Steve says desperately, “Brooklyn—MODOK—“

            The soldier comes in low, and Steve leaps up, kicking him in the face. Grabbing his leg, the Winter Soldier flips him over, Steve hitting the ground so hard it knocks the breath from him. He gasps, darting out of the way as the left fist comes down, and he hears the crater made beside his head.

            Rolling away, he jumps onto his feet. The solider looks up at him with empty grey eyes, rising and spinning the knife in his fingers.

            “You and me,” Steve says. “Spring Formal. World of Tomorrow. Augsburg. The Alps! I let you fall, I wasn’t fast enough and I let you _fall_ —“

            The soldier moves faster than even Steve could expect, grabbing him by the front of his suit and throwing him upwards. Steve goes up into the air about ten feet, in an arc. He  has just enough time to think _this will rattle my bones_ before he hits.

            He lands on his left arm, and this time he hears something crack. He looks over. He’s so close to the gun that Bucky threw away earlier. Steve hisses, trying to get back up.

            Only the soldier has him by the throat, hauling him to his feet with that inescapable left hand, and he brings Steve up to look him in the eyes. The eyes Steve’s known for nearly a hundred years, only they’re on a man he doesn’t know.

            “You and me,” Steve whispers. “Me loving you more than anything.”

            The Winter Soldier knocks out his legs, slamming them both onto the ground with his weight, and Steve knows he’s going to have to fight to kill or he’s going to die.

            So he’s going to have to die. Again.

            The voice that’s Bucky, always Bucky, whispers, _The hell you do, you martyr_.

            Then Steve feels a little tap on his chest, just over his heart.

            He gasps in a breath.

            The other man swings out a leg, knocking the gun into Steve’s hand, then he grabs him and spins him up and around. Bucky throws the knife in his hand at Jackson the same moment Steve fires the gun at her.

            She jerks backwards awkwardly. The knife has lodged above her heart, and her left knee has been blown out. Looking down at herself, she blinks a few times and says, “You must be joking,” before dropping onto her good knee.

            Bucky gets to his feet, saying, “Why didn’t you shoot her?”

            Pushing himself up, Steve says, “Oh, right, her knee just spontaneously did that.”

            “No, I mean in the head. You completely threw off my target. You think I was aiming for her shoulder?”

            “Of course, you’re right, I forgot that my orders are to kill her instead of bring her in alive—“ Steve stops when Bucky stalks towards Jackson. “Buck—“

            She’s breathing heavily. With both hands, Jackson pulls the knife out of her chest, and tosses it aside. Bucky gets five feet from her, then pulls out another pistol and points it at her head.

            “Wait!” Steve orders.

            Bucky simply says, “Why?”

            “Because she’s worth more to me alive than dead.”

            “Well, she’s worth about five hundred million to me dead.”

            “Can I interest you in six?” Jackson says. She looks down at her knee, and gives her head a shake. “Fuck. That really hurts.” Glancing up at Bucky, she narrows her eyes. “They told me the words would work. Even in English.”

            Bucky pulls the bolt back, and Steve can’t stand the thought of watching him kill anyone else. Not even Jackson. “Bucky, please—“

            “Don’t you want to know who I’m talking about?” Jackson says, the promise of a trade in her voice.

            “Nope,” Bucky says, and pulls the trigger.

            Steve recoils—but the bang doesn’t come. Instead, it’s a swift little _shwoop_ , and then a small dart is sticking out of Jackson’s head. She stares forward a second, then falls onto her side, unconscious. But still very much alive.

            A second later, the cuffs blow up. Steve puts his arm up, a chunk of metal whizzing by his head. When the smoke starts to clear, he can see a hole in the ground. It would have definitely taken off more than his hands.

            Dropping his hands, Steve turns to look at Bucky, who’s walking across the room to him, holstering his tranquilizer pistol. “Fine,” Bucky says, “you want her, you can have her. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, and you need to appreciate that I’m about to have some really pissed off clients.”

            “The words,” Steve says.

            Coming to stand in front of him, Bucky shrugs like it’s nothing. “I told you. Therapy. Two hours, every single day, for the past seven months. Video conference. Pretty handy. You’re the one who told me it was going to take therapy and time—“

            Steve punches him so hard in the nose that it breaks.

            Falling back several feet, Bucky lifts his hand to his face. He bends over slightly, blood beginning to course out. He clears his throat, then stands straight again. “I deserved that.”

            “Oh no,” Steve says. “You deserve a _hell_ of a lot more than that.” He drops the clip of the gun, checking to see how many bullets he has left. Six. He slams the clip back in.

            “Are you going to use that on me?”

            Steve slips the safety on so he doesn’t ‘accidentally’ shoot Bucky. “You—used how I felt about you just to get to your target. You used me every step of the way.”

            “No, I told you, I had to think. So I multitasked—“

            “I’m done,” Steve says, turning away.

            “What?”

            He turns back just as easily. “Done. As in, if I ever see your face again, it will be too soon. I trusted you—you’re the one thing, the one thing I believed in my whole life, and every other thing I was somehow able to look past. The killing, the lack of empathy, the whatever the hell else—but you are _broken_ in a way that there’s no coming back from, and I’m finished with you.”

            Bucky stares at him, and says, “Don’t say that—“

            “How do we get out of here?”

            “Steve, you were already going after her, our missions overlapped—“

            “How do we get out of here?”

            “I needed to confirm she was the Power Broker, and you were on the same track, it made sense to just—“

            Steve says again, “I need to know how we get out of here. I have a fractured arm, and you know how people say they’re on their last nerve? I’ve got no nerves left. I need to be as far from you as possible.”

            “Stevie—“

            “You don’t get to call me that, _James_. Not ever again.”

            “I’m sorry about the arm, I just had to keep her distracted until—“

            “Tell me how we get out of here.”

            There’s a clanking from the door. Steve turns, lifting the gun with his good arm. The lock turns, and Bucky says, “I needed to distract Jackson until she got here.”

            The middle of the door creaks, then pulls back into the walls abruptly. Natasha stands there, calm as a cucumber and splattered with blood.

            “Hey fellas,” she says. “Heard you had some lady trouble.”

            Steve lowers the gun. “Are we clear?”

            “Base is secured.”

            “Clint?”

            Natasha shrugs, striding into the room. “Someone pushed him off a mountain, but you know him. Grappling line on an arrow.” Crossing her arms, she nods towards Jackson’s unconscious body. “She give you much hassle?”

            “Honestly,” Steve says, “she’s not even my least favourite person in the room right now.” He goes to Jackson, sticking the gun in one of his empty holsters. Slipping his arms around her, Steve lifts her easily over his shoulder, then heads for the door.

            “Steve,” Bucky says.

            “Goodbye, James.”

            “I need a ride off the mountain—“

            “You got here on your own, you can leave the same way.”

            He’s in the hall when he hears Bucky say to Natasha, “Seriously, I need a ride off the mountain.”

            Steve doesn’t care. He just wants to go back to New York, have a shower, and destroy that fucking mask he’s kept in his closet.

 

The jet is very quiet as they lift off. It’s night, the only illumination coming from the spotlights the SHIELD agents have put up as they go about the business of stripping the base.

            It’s the five of them in the jet. Clint’s at the controls, a sling around his left arm. Steve’s sitting on one side of Jackson, who is unconscious and wearing cuffs that would give the Hulk a run for his money, and Natasha’s on the other.

            Bucky’s sitting across from them, watching Steve every second.

            Steve ignores him. He has his shield between his legs. He’s running his thumb along the top edge.

            Something inside himself has gone hard and resolute. It’s been a long time since he felt like this. Last time was finding Zola’s mind and discovering that SHIELD had always been HYDRA, that everything he believed in was a lie.

            Very softly, Bucky says, “Steve.”

            Lifting empty eyes, Steve answers, “Save it.”

            “It wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”

            “You’re not human enough to understand when someone would be hurt,” Steve replies, “and you’re enough of a bastard to know exactly how to manipulate the only person who could give a damn about you. Congratulations. All that talk about me staying away from you, so I’d be safe? You get your wish, whether you meant it or not.”

            Bucky sighs, leaning forward, and Steve lowers his eyes back to his shield. It’s never failed him. His shield is simple, and straightforward. It protects him. No matter what.

            “I meant what I said in Philadelphia. We are dangerous together. You know that. It doesn’t mean I can stay away from you. Not forever. Even if I wish I could. I needed to _think_.”

            “Sure.”

            “Steve—“

            “I really would have preferred it if you would have just stabbed me again,” Steve murmurs honestly. “It would have been kinder. You won’t understand that. You can’t.”

            “Yes—I am broken. Yes, I’m a sociopath. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you.”

            With a shrug, Steve says to him, “I don’t love you.”

            Studying him, Bucky says, “You’re lying.”

            “No. I’m not.”

            “You can’t just switch off a century like—“

            “I can’t, no. You went ahead and did it for me.” Steve nods across the jet. “Get yourself a parachute. Once we’re clear of the mountains, I’m going to open that door, and you’re going out. You can either jump, or I’ll push you. There is no third option.”

            Bucky does nothing. He sits there, watching Steve.

            Losing his patience, Steve unbuckles. He gets up and goes to the parachutes strapped to the wall. Grabbing one, he throws it at Bucky, who snatches it out of the air. His brows have begun to furrow, like he realizes Steve is serious. Maybe even like Bucky might be upset.

            It’s just an act. It’s always an act with him. Bucky Barnes died in 1945 after waiting two months for Steve to come save him. This man might have his name, his body, his memories, but too much has happened to him. He’s not the man Steve fell in love with.

            They all turn to look as Jackson stirs. “Thought you said that dart would take down an elephant,” Natasha says.

            “It should,” Bucky says, withdrawing the pistol and arming it.

            Steve walks to the other side of Jackson, watching her slowly blink her way upwards to consciousness. He crosses his arms, near the back of the jet.

            She lifts her head a little, wincing, and Steve says, “Evening.”

            Jackson hisses softly, probing at her cheek with her tongue. “Which one of you—cowardly pieces of shit hit me while I was unconscious?”

            “Spare me,” Natasha says. “If I was going to hit you I’d do it while you were awake. Does now work for you?”

            “Which—one of you—“         

            She spits out one of her teeth, past Steve. It rolls back against the doors. Then Jackson grins at Steve.

            A split second before the back of the jet explodes, Bucky is throwing Steve in the opposite direction, so hard that he’s tossed against the pilot’s seat. The rear of the jet disappears in a roar of flame and screeching metal, and Bucky’s sucked outside, the parachute pack flying past him.

            It’s a moment frozen in time, and Steve is in 1944 all over again and he’s here too.

            Bucky grabs onto the first thing he can, a scrap of metal that’s barely attached to the jet. He has it only by the ends of two fingers on the right hand, his body hanging perilously out into space as the jet starts to plummet. Jackson has gotten up, swinging her cuffed hands at Natasha, but Steve only sees Bucky, about to fall.

            Bucky is always about to fall.

            He sees the fear on Bucky’s face, the realization of what’s about to happen, again, and all Bucky does is whisper, “Of course.”

            Steve is running across the jet. He snatches up his shield, dodging around Natasha and Jackson’s fight. Clint’s yelling for them to hold on and the jet bucks under them. One of Bucky’s fingers slips from the little strip of metal, the only thing keeping him from death, and he closes his eyes.

            Steve leaps out of the jet, wrapping his whole body around Bucky, and they fall together.

            The air is cold and rushing around them as they plummet.

            “What are you doing?” Bucky screams.

            “Falling!” Steve answers, looking down. There’s snow under them, and rock too, and no telling which they’ll hit. It’s a long way down, but it’s getting less with every second.

            “You idiot, where’s your parachute—“

            “Never wear one!”

            “So what, you thought you’d die with me? Why would you do that to me?!” Bucky grabs Steve’s face, shaking it. He looks more scared than Steve has ever seen. “Why the fuck would you do that to me?!”

            “Either because I love you or I’m a martyr!” The ground’s coming up fast. It’s coming up so fast. “Probably both!”

            Bucky screams in his face, “I HATE YOU! Steve, don’t—“

            “Together,” Steve says, putting his shield underneath himself. “How it should be.”

            He jams his knees up between them and kicks Bucky straight up into the air, hopefully cutting down on some of his velocity. He hears Bucky wail, but he’s closing his eyes, making himself small, trusting in his shield.

            But no matter what, this time he didn’t let Bucky fall alone.


	14. The Question

_This is my house._

_No._

_This is where I lived when I was a boy._

_That is the stove where my mother cooked our meals. This is the table where we ate. This is the table where I did my homework. This is where my friend and I sat and did our homework together. I cannot remember his name. It seems important, but I can’t remember._

_“You’ll remember. You always remember.”_

_I lift my head. A person walks over. I’m unsure where they came from. They are featureless, sexless. Their voice gives nothing away. “Will I?”_

_They sit down. “Yes. You never remember here. But you remember him. And so you leave.”_

_“Where are we?”_

_“In a dream.”_

_That makes sense. I dream often. They’re rarely like this. I feel safe here. It’s been so long since I felt safe. That I can remember._

_I look at the person sitting across the table. “Who are you?”_

_“I’m the one you ask for.”_

_“I can’t remember. I can’t see you.”_

_Their appearance shifts before me, until I see a man. He is tall and broad. His hair is black, and so are his eyes. There are freckles across his cheeks. He wears clothes that are olive green. There is a medal pinned to his chest. Ah—he’s a soldier._

_“Is that better?”_

_“Yes.” I think back. “Something happened.”_

_He nods. “Yes.”_

_“I fell.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“This is where I come when things happen.”_

_“Yes.”_

_I look around the house. This is not where I was happiest, but it’s where I felt the most safe. I remember. “This is where I come when I die.”_

_The soldier nods at me. “Yes.”_

_Little pieces come back. “I was here for sixty seven years once. It was a long time.”_

_“And a matter of seconds.”_

_Smiling slightly, I say, “Yes.” I fold my hands together, and now I can smell things. My mother’s cooking. The scent of lead pencils on paper. The grease he’d put in his hair. “I die more than most people.”_

_“Most only do it the once.”_

_“This is where I come when I think things will end.” I look at the man. “And I ask for you.”_

_“Always.”_

_“Why do you come?”_

_“Because you ask.”_

_“Is it that simple?”_

_“Of course.”_

_I look at his face. It’s a kind face. Not the face of a soldier, though he wears the uniform. I remember that there’s no such thing as the face of a soldier. Anyone can be a warrior, and it’s not only on the field of battle. That’s a thing I forget all too often._

_“Every time, I ask you the same question.”_

_“You do.”_

_“Does it bother you?”_

_“No.”_

_“Can I ask it again?”_

_He nods. “Yes.”_

_I ask my father, “Were you proud of me?”_

_He reaches across the table for my hand, and I give it to him. His fingers wrap around mine, and he gazes into my eyes. “Every moment of your existence, I was proud. I loved you before you were even a thought. I loved you when I was only a memory. I loved you when you were wrong, and I loved you when you were right. And in every moment, every single one, I was so,_ so _proud of you.” He closes his other hand over mine, and shakes his head at me. “A leanbh. How could I not be?”_

_I’m cold. This home is always warm, but I’m starting to feel cold. “Thank you.” I feel the wind move over my face. “I have to get back. He’s waiting.”_

_“I know.”_

_“But you’ll be here? When I come again?”_

_“Of course I will. You call, and I’ll answer. I’ll answer every time. Until it’s the last time, and you won’t forget again.”_

_He lets me go._

 

He’s not exactly conscious at first. He’s somewhere between sleeping and waking.

            He knows he’s cold. He knows someone is speaking.

            “Don’t you do this to me—don’t you do this, not for me—wake up, Steve. Stevie, please. Please, don’t do this. Don’t, I’m begging you, you don’t do this, you can’t, you can’t do this—Jesus Christ, you can’t—oh God—oh God, you can’t do this—“

            He has a mouth. He makes it move, and whispers, “Not…doing anything.”

            He hears the sound of scrambling, and there’s something warm on his face. It’s not until that happens that he realizes how frozen he is. And—holy _shit_ , how much everything hurts.

            “Steve? Steve, can you hear me? Steve, open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me.”

            So he opens his eyes, and looks up into the terrified, bloodied face of Bucky Barnes.

            “Buck?” Steve whispers.

            He can see the stars around Bucky’s head. It’s dark and very, very cold. His hands to Steve’s face, Bucky says worriedly, “Yeah, sweetheart. You okay? Stevie, are you okay?”

            Inhaling, Steve asks haltingly, “How’re the….”

            “What, sweetheart? How’s what?”

            Steve asks, “How are the Dodgers doing in the Series?”

            Bucky stares at him, and then falls back. Steve’s able to move his head enough to see Bucky drop onto his ass, covering his face with both hands.

            They’re in the snow. Middle of the mountains. Steve can see his shield off to the side. It hurts too much to move, but that’s good. If he’s this sore, it means he’s not paralyzed.

            Dropping his hands, Bucky roars, “Are you _kidding_ me?” He scowls at Steve so fiercely that most people would probably wet themselves. But Steve’s seen it before. “I swear to God—I swear to God, you suicidal son of a bitch, if you hadn’t broke both your legs and your arm and your collarbone, I’d be beating the living shit out of you right now!”

            “How far did we fall? That’s pretty good for however far we fell.”

            Bucky shoves himself to his feet and walks away. He goes to sit beneath a tree, pushing his face into his hands.

            Steve watches him, testing out his fingers. They work. That’s good. “How’d you do?” Steve says. “Anything broken?”

            Bucky doesn’t answer. He keeps his face buried in his hands and is still.

            Well, Steve watched him walk over there, and there doesn’t seem to be any gaping wounds. His face was bloody, but Steve remembers that’s because he broke his nose and cut his face. Between the two of them, Steve’s in a lot worse shape.

            Then Bucky lets out a sob, and Steve realizes he’s crying.

            For a second, he can’t do anything. He didn’t even think Bucky _could_ cry anymore. Steve watches as Bucky covers his head with his arms and weeps against his knees.

            “Hey,” Steve says. “Stop that, or I have to come over there.”

            “Fuck yourself,” Bucky says through his tears.

            Steve takes a deep breath. He reaches out with his broken arm, and starts pulling himself across the snow.

            Lifting his head, Bucky yells, “Stop!” He gets to his feet, stomping back over to Steve. “Jesus Christ, have you been brain damaged from birth and I just didn’t catch on until now? What’s wrong with you?”

            “Love you,” Steve answers. “That’s what’s wrong with me.”

            Bucky drops down next to him. “Said you didn’t.”

            “Lied. I was pissed. Got over it pretty quick when it looked like you were fixing to die on me again.”

            Bucky smears at his face. “You didn’t even grab a parachute, you _moron_.”

            “I’d rather die with you than live alone.”

            “ _Moron_ ,” Bucky repeats, and rubs vigorously at his face. “You can’t _do_ that, Steve. You can’t. Not ever again.”

            “You’re not the boss of me.”

            “Well somebody should be! Because you’ve got no goddamn sense!” Bucky throws an arm up at the sky. “Jumping out of a jet with me? Are you insane? For what? For me? That’s not fucking worth it!”

            “Of course it is—“

            “No it’s not! I’m not the one you want! I’m the guy who jerks you around, who lies to you as much as he tells the truth. So what if I love you? Doesn’t mean I’m fucking worth all this!”

            “Yeah you are—“

            Bucky says, “I pushed the button in Brooklyn. Okay? Do you understand? I walked in there and I pushed the button that killed all those people, just to throw him off, so I could kill him. That’s who I am. I’m the guy who pushed the button.”

            “I know,” Steve says.

            For a moment, Bucky’s at a loss for words. He shakes his head. “What do you mean, you know?”

            “I’m not an idiot. I knew what you’d done as soon as I woke up and they told me half the city was gone. And you told me yourself—we’re dangerous together. Did you think I wasn’t listening?”

            Bucky tries several times before he can speak. “You—you’re obviously not listening to me, because I’m telling you I’m not worth you loving me—“

            “And I’m not worth anyone loving me, but you do it anyways—“

            “What the hell are you talking about, of course you’re—“

            “I don’t care that you pushed the button,” Steve says, and that shuts Bucky up. “Everybody thinks—that I’m perfect. That I feel what I’m supposed to, that I should count all the lives and remember all the names. I’m not Tony. I just don’t feel things…like people think I do. There’s one thing that matters to me in this whole world. More than anything. Sure as hell a lot more than right and wrong. I don’t care about other people, not like I should. Not like I wish I could. And I know that means something’s wrong with me. I’m not what people wanted. I’m just this. And this—broken, bloody, stupid mess would jump out of the sky for you any day, no questions asked. Cause I love you. It’s fucked up and awful, and I don’t even care. I just love you.”

            They sit there a moment in the snow.

            Steve takes in a breath, deep enough that it hurts, and asks, “Any idea if the others made it?”

            Bucky nods. “I have intercept on SHIELD comms. Jet crashed, but Barton and Romanoff got out before it did. It crashed with Jackson still in it, so—alive, dead, no idea. They’re waiting on pick up.”

            “So they’ll be looking for us too.”

            “Yup.”

            “You gonna leave me again, Buck?”

            Bucky covers his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths. Each one is three seconds long. Still him, after all this time.

            He puts his hand to the side of his face, and asks tiredly, “What do you want, Steve?”

            “What I really want?”

            “Yeah.”

            Steve looks up at him and says, “I want to be with you until the day I die and it’s actually permanent. Don’t care where or how. Don’t want to be a puppet anymore. I want to be myself. And I want to be with you. Regardless of the consequences. No more pretending to be anything I’m not. This is what I am.”

            Bucky looks away from him. Steve is too sore to worry, or to feel sad.

            With a brush at the last of his tears, Bucky says, “Good, because I tossed all your GPS equipment and carried you three kilometres from where we crashed. And J and Semyon will be here in five minutes.”

            Steve stares at him. He says, “Yeah?”

            Bucky nods brusquely, then shrugs. “If I can’t talk you out of jumping out of a jet without a parachute, don’t know that I’ve got much chance of shaking you.” He swallows. “I guess you’re stuck with me, if that’s what you want.”

            “How many goddamn times do I have to tell you it is—“

            “Okay,” Bucky says, and reaches down to touch his hair. He studies Steve, then shakes his head. “I’d kiss you, you idiot, but all we’d taste is blood.”

            “Yeah, well, how’s that different from any other day?” Steve mutters.

            With a frown, Bucky leans down, and gently kisses the side of Steve’s mouth.

            “Ow.”

            “I _told_ you—“

            “I’m kidding.”

            Groaning, Bucky falls onto his back beside Steve. His arms flopping on his chest, he stares up at the sky. “I’m not supposed to feel this fucking much, Steve. It’s terrifying.”

            “You ain’t kidding.”

            They lay on their backs and watch the stars pass overhead. Steve listens to the sound of Bucky’s breathing. He reaches out with his hand. Skin cold from the snow, they thread their fingers together, and don’t say another word until rescue comes.


	15. The Dream

It’s the rain that wakes him.

            Steve opens his eyes, gazing out the window. It’s pouring buckets, coming down in sheets against the window. With a little grumble, he curls up a bit more, burrowing against the couch. It’s good that it’s raining. This place is right under the hole in the ozone, and sometimes the heat is like nothing he’s ever experienced.

            There’s a crack of thunder, and he sighs, forcing his eyes open again. Fine. If the world insists on being like that. Besides. The laundry probably needs to be switched over.

            He sits up, stretching, then scratches his hair. It still feels decadent. Taking a nap in the middle of the day. But what the hell. Bucky calls him a man of leisure. Steve can quite comfortably live with that.

            “You here?” he calls.

            Nope. No one but him.

            He stands up, and walks over to the floor length window. He takes in the view. It’s a beautiful place—obscenely expensive, he discovered when he got Bucky to admit how much it was. But the hill outside is an emerald green, rolling down until it hits the ocean. Away from people. A long way, which is nice. He doesn’t leave the house much, and he’s okay with that too.

            Bucky’s convinced he’ll go stir crazy. He can’t stay at the house for more than three days at a time before he’s off again, but he’s back just as soon. After so many years under other people’s control, Bucky seems to equate commitment with a loss of autonomy. Steve’s patient.

            And he isn’t going stir crazy. He’s surprised that he isn’t. He is a city boy, and he was an Avenger. He was a soldier, a man who always had to be the first in and the last out, the one reckless with his life, the one who took everything on his shoulders. Living quietly, in a country not his own, far from home, he should be going nuts.

            He’s not.

            Steve spends his days drawing and reading, going for runs around the property, sitting by the shore, listening to music and making lists of all the movies he wants to watch and crossing them off the list one by one. He cooks, which he’s getting better at, and he’s working on the house. The place is gorgeous, yeah, but it needs some work. He’s teaching himself about home repair and plumbing. When the season’s right, he thinks he’ll try gardening.

            Because why not?

            Because he’s not supposed to be a person? He’s supposed to save the world? Because he’s the only one who could possibly take on the task?

            Steve has spent much of his life trying to fulfill an unobtainable savior complex. He’s pretty much done with that. There’s 7.4 billion people in the world. Someone else can quite easily take his place.

            And yes, there are the days when he hates himself for what he’s doing. All his gifts, and all that sorrow in the world—

            He can’t fix the world. He’s served, as honourably as he was able, and he’s also made mistakes, and for now he needs to remove himself from the board. Maybe it’s forever. Maybe it’s not. He doesn’t think about it, if he doesn’t have to.

            He just remembers that question Sam asked him, way back when—what makes you happy?

            This. This makes him happy.

 

Flipping on the light to the basement, Steve walks down the stairs, letting out a yawn. Scratching at his stomach, he hops down the last three steps.

            He walks through the workshop. Bucky’s been experimenting with the vibranium he bought from the scavengers in Sokovia. Steve’s still waiting on a bed that doesn’t look like something out of an insane asylum in a horror movie. He saw Bucky’s initial sketches and said to him, “Not on your life.”

            “It’s functional.”

            “It’s hideous.”

            “Fine, we’ll paint it red, white, and blue,” Bucky sniped back.

            So Steve sat down with him and they hashed out a design over the next few days that was a little less intimidating, but still sturdy as hell. Usually they just go outdoors when they can’t keep their hands off each other, but when it rains like this they use the bed. They’ve gone through four headboards in three months, and last time Bucky’s hand actually lodged in it for a solid minute while Steve laughed hysterically and Bucky quietly seethed and threatened him with all manner of death.

            Steve passes the welding gear and piles of metal, hearing that the washing machine has stopped. He’s opens the door, getting the acrid smell of bleach. He’s doing his whites.

            They each do their own laundry. Steve tried to do Bucky’s, but the one time he did, Bucky did that thing that still occasionally happens where he’ll go still for a few seconds, eyes turning blank. Steve hasn’t asked him if he’s thinking ‘status,’ but he assumes that’s what it is. “Can’t be around bleach,” Bucky said tightly, and insisted on doing his own laundry afterwards.

            Things like that pop up from time to time. Reminders of the past. It’s not solely on Bucky’s side, but Steve’s too. Every time he wakes up from a nightmare, Bucky is already awake, left hand on Steve’s head. It was only after a lot of prompting and work that Steve was able to move the shield away from the side of the bed. At first he put it a few feet away. Then across the room. Then out into the hall, though that first night resulted in a full-fledged panic attack.

            Now the shield sits in the office, leaning against his desk.

            Steve puts his clothes into the dryer, tossing in fabric softener, then turns it on. The machine comes on, rhythmic and soothing. It was a little shaky there for a while, but Bucky took it all apart and back together again, and now it runs like new.  

            That done, Steve turns to leave. He automatically reaches up, fingers grazing over the shotgun Bucky’s mounted on the wall, just in case. Hands in his pockets, Steve heads back upstairs, turning the lights off behind himself.

 

Bucky still isn’t back, and he hasn’t left a note, so Steve ambles to the office near the back of the house. They have two computers in there. Bucky’s is sprawling, though neat. He keeps a Captain America bobble head on top of his modem. Steve’s laptop is in the corner, quietly gathering dust. It only gets used once a week, when he has his appointment with the therapist that Bucky of all people recommended.

            Sitting down, he gives his shield a little affectionate stroke, then turns the computer on, and twists from side to side in his chair, waiting for it to boot up. He’s been meaning to do this for a while. He’s not sure why this is the right day. Maybe because he’s had a nap and feels well rested and he’s gone three days—three _days_ —without any nightmares, which is an all-time record.

            Whatever the reason, Steve carefully adjusts the camera on top of the computer, then makes the call.

            He isn’t worried about being tracked. J spent twenty minutes setting it up, told him he could call anybody, anywhere, and no one in the world would be able to find him. They pointed at him and growled, “But don’t fuck with it. I can’t do anything about it if you start illegally downloading shit.”

            “Like what?” Steve asked in confusion.

            “I don’t know. _Game of Thrones_.”

            He hasn’t illegally downloaded anything, hasn’t even touched the computer since his last appointment, so he figures he’s all right. Besides, he doesn’t have the stomach for _Game of Thrones._ Bucky loves it, though, because he’s deranged. But he’ll sit through any animated film Steve puts on without complaint, so Steve tries return the favour.

            He waits a few seconds, then the screen is filled with a beautiful face. Cat-like eyes, red hair, basically the picture of perfection. He smiles, and Natasha says, “Wondered when I’d hear from you, Mrs. Barnes.”

            Steve rolls his eyes. “Hi to you too.”

            “Give me a second. I’m at work.”

            She disappears for a moment, and Steve picks up a blanket he keeps under the desk. He wraps it around his shoulders, listening to the thunderstorm outside. It seems like it’s either claustrophobically humid or threatening to turn into a monsoon. He’s not sure if it’s normal weather for the area.

            Natasha’s back, and she raises a brow. “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

            “I don’t understand that reference.”

            “For the best. It’s racist and sexist.”

            “Sorry about the Rockies.”

            “Figured you’d land on your feet. We’re fine, by the way. After you abandoned us.”

            “I knew you’d be fine.”

            Her face changes a little. “We’re not. Fine. We miss you.”

            Steve feels a small twinge of guilt. “I miss you. And Clint, tell him—hi, I guess.” He takes a deep breath. “Is Sam okay? I heard the inquiry worked out.”

            “Sam’s fine. Fury went to bat for him, made sure his deal didn’t change.” Natasha says, “He’s been asking about you.”

            “I just—needed some time before I started—explaining, or apologizing, or whatever it was that people needed from me.” He crosses his arms on the desk, looking her over. He’s missed her. The stillness of her face, the slight knowing tilt of her mouth. “Sam’s my next call. Tomorrow, when I work up the guts.”

            She raises her shoulders. “You want to hear how we got the Power Broker?”

            Steve snorts, and says, “Nat, I live with Bucky. I know pretty much everything that happens at SHIELD.”

            “Well, we’ll all sleep a lot easier at night, knowing that.”

            “Don’t worry. I—sort of keep him in line.”

            Natasha studies him from thousands of miles away, and says, “So this is how it’s going to be, huh?”

            Steve answers, “Couldn’t miss my shot.”

            She smiles crookedly, then says, “Yeah. Guess you couldn’t.” She pushes back her hair, and asks, “So are we ever seeing you again? Is this the last of Steve Rogers?”

            “Don’t know. For now at least. But never say never. The world is—a dangerous enough place. I don’t think I need to contribute.”

            “You always did more good than harm.”

            “I think that’s pretty subjective.”

            “No,” Natasha says, “it isn’t.”

            Steve takes a deep breath, and tells her, “If you need me, I’ll come. Always.”

            “How will you know?”

            “I’ll know.”

            She lowers her head, then nods. “Captain,” she says.

            Steve gives her a little salute. “Ma’am.”

            He reaches down, and hangs up.

            He doesn’t feel how he imagined he would. Guilty. Remorseful. Itching to run back and save the day, be the hero, do all that’s expected of the mythical Steve Rogers.

            No. The world is getting on just fine without him. Better people are seeing to that. And the real Steve Rogers—flawed, insular, content—is doing fine without the world.

 

Steve’s in the middle of getting comfortable, sitting on the windowsill with his sketch pad up against his knees, when the front door finally opens.

            “Where the hell have you been?” Steve asks without any heat behind it.

            “The road washed out.”

            Steve lifts his head. “Seriously?”

            Bucky’s stripping out of his jacket, soaking wet. “No, I just decided to park the truck three miles away in the mud for no reason.” He’s got that little crease between his brow that appears sometimes when he’s unimpressed about something. Steve knows his face well enough to recognize it. Bucky runs a hand over his soaked, messy hair, hissing.

            Steve goes back to the blank page, tracing a light line. “If you’re gonna be evil, I’d suggest changing out of those wet clothes first.”

            “Not like I’m gonna catch pneumonia,” Bucky mutters, walking down the hall to the bedroom.

            It’s not perfect. Of course it isn’t. They drive each other crazy sometimes. Steve’s not the same person he was when they were kids, and Bucky’s not either. Steve forgets that sometimes, and Bucky’s never been in a relationship with someone before, and so they butt heads.

            But at the end of every day, they go to bed together, or Steve puts the phone next to his head, and listens while Bucky reads to him from wherever he’s gone.

            They are co-dependent and unashamed of it. They’re stubborn individuals who sometimes don’t see eye to eye. It’s bumpy and wonderful and every day, Steve takes a moment to be thankful, knowing that whatever comes next, he was brave enough to grab onto this with all his might. Maybe it took him a century to be himself, but at least he’s gotten here.

            A few minutes later, Bucky emerges from the bedroom, changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s parted his hair on the side, combed it back flawlessly. “It’s possible I might have been snippy,” he admits.

            “It’s possible that occasionally you’re an asshole,” Steve responds, but affectionately.  

            Bucky runs a hand over Steve’s hair, then sits down opposite him, pushing his toes under Steve’s ass. Steve just shakes his head, smiling slightly. Bucky rests his head against the window, looking out at the rain and the ocean.

            “Whatcha working on?” he asks.

            “Nothing special,” Steve says, and means it.

            “Stevie?”

            “Yeah, Buck?”

            “How long does this last?”

            He looks up, resting his hands on the top of the sketchbook. “Which part?”

            Bucky lifts his shoulders. Today, with the rain, his eyes look blue. “You and me—this vacation from reality.”

            “Buck, to me, the last seventy years seem like a vacation from reality.”

            Resting his elbows on his knees, Bucky asks, “Does it ever not—“ He taps his chest. “Sit on you? Right here? Can you feel it?”

            “Feel what?”   

            “This—worry. That it’ll all go wrong.”

            Steve nods. “Yeah. I feel that.”

            “What do you do to—make it stop?”

            It’s a strange miracle. That they can talk like this to one another. Steve spent so much of his life afraid to tell anyone—and most especially this man—what he really thought. Now, though, he is always honest with Bucky. Always.

            “I don’t. That would be unrealistic.” Steve thinks about it, then shrugs. “I live with it because—some days, this seems like a dream. You and me, and all the things we’ve done, all the things done to us, and it seems like this can’t be real. It couldn’t possibly be real. It doesn’t seem—right, that you and I get this little piece of happiness. It seems…out of character. Like the wrong ending to the story, because we don’t deserve it.”

            Blue-grey eyes narrowing, Bucky prompts, “So?”

            “So, if it’s a dream, it’s the best dream I’ve ever had. It doesn’t have to last forever. We don’t have to live happily ever after. I just need you, now, and for as long as possible. If it’s another week, or another month, or year, or even if this is it forever. But right now—you and I, against all the odds—we get this. I don’t need to question it. I just need to enjoy myself for once in my life. I’m just happy with you. That’s all I need to know, when it comes down to it.”

            Bucky looks him over, then he drops one of his legs off the side of the wide sill. “Come over here.”

            Steve doesn’t have to be told twice. He gets up, then sits down with his back against Bucky’s chest, stretching his legs out. Bucky wraps his arms around him. When it’s like this, Steve feels small again. It doesn’t bother him in the least. Actually, it feels more right than anything else.

            Bucky murmurs to him, “Have I told you lately that you’re the bravest man I ever met?”

            Making a face, Steve says, “So you haven’t met many people, huh?”

            “Christ,” Bucky mutters, and kisses behind his ear. “Hundred fucking years, and you still don’t know how to take a compliment.”

            “Nope.”

            “Then have I mentioned that you’re brilliant, and fuckable, and your hands—“

            “My hands are going to cover your mouth, you don’t stop this.”

            Steve smiles as Bucky laughs softly against him. Kissing Steve’s hair, Bucky says quietly, “The world is a terrible place. And we are terrible people.”

            Sobering, Steve says, “Yes.”

            “But it’s you and me. That’s what counts.” Bucky squeezes him. “That’s what will always count the most.”

            Steve relaxes against him. He runs his fingertips along the synthetic skin of Bucky’s left arm, and tries to think of what else to say.

            But there is nothing else he could say.

            So they sit together, and watch the rain come down, far away from the rest of the world. They’re together. And that is how it should be.

 

During dinner, Bucky’s phone goes off. Without a word, he gets up and goes to the office to take the call. When he comes back five minutes later, Steve doesn’t ask about it, and Bucky doesn’t volunteer.

            They do the dishes together, same as every night. Steve washes, and Bucky dries, standing close to one another. Steve watches him for the sign that he’s about to leave again. It’s just a reality of the life they live together. He’s himself, yeah—and Bucky is Bucky. That means sometimes watching him walk out the door.

            As they finish up, Steve asks, “We gonna see the kids soon for dinner?”

            “Probably. J wants to do the Shire tour. I don’t get them, but whatever, they’re into it. Semyon, he’s—you know, the whole plutonium thing.”

            “Don’t remind me. I’ve managed to make it this long without grey hairs.”

            “So he’s laying low. He’ll probably come by when J does.” Bucky sighs quietly, hanging up the dish cloth. He puts a hand to Steve’s back, watching him. “Gonna read on the porch,” Bucky says. “Want to join me?”

            Steve suspects that this definitely means Bucky’s leaving on a job, but he smiles, and nods.

            They have a wicker couch on the back porch that they spend plenty of evenings on. Steve sits with his feet up on the railing, going through a few cigarettes. Bucky lays with his head on Steve’s thigh, his legs over the arm of the couch. Steve will run his finger through Bucky’s hair, and sometimes Bucky will read aloud to him. Tonight, Bucky stays quiet, and Steve studies the way the grass shines and shivers in the rain.

            Eventually, Bucky puts the book on his chest. “I might have to go for a couple days. I haven’t decided yet.” He tilts his head back, looking at Steve.

            With a nod, Steve lifts a lock from Bucky’s forehead. “Okay.”

            “Haven’t decided yet.”

            Steve waits to see what Bucky wants, and then furrows his brow. “Do you want me to help you decide?”

            “I think I already know what you’d say.”

            “Yeah. But that’s because I’m selfish.”

            With a shrug, Bucky says, “You being selfish gives me satisfaction.”

            “Satisfaction,” Steve snorts.

            “You know what I mean. I like that you want me around.”

            “Well, I like it when you _are_ around. But it’s up to you. You make your choices.”

            Bucky thinks about it a moment, then says, “Hey Stevie?”

            “Yeah, Buck.”

            “Kiss me.”

            Steve puts his cigarette out in the ashtray, saying, “Well, not like this, because I don’t bend that way. A man could break his neck.” He picks Bucky up under the armpits, dragging him up to sit in his lap.

            Shaking his head, Bucky glares at him. “You know I _hate_ it when you do that.”

            Smiling crookedly, Steve counters, “I know you like an open book, James Barnes. So I know your secret.”

            As he puts a finger into Bucky’s shirt collar, pulling him forward, Bucky murmurs, “What secret?”

            “You love it when I do that.”

            “Fuck,” Bucky mutters against his mouth, and Steve laughs as he kisses him. He wraps his arms around Bucky, lightly sucking his lower lip. Bucky nuzzles against him, then smirks. “Know what you taste like?”

            “Is it cancer?”

            “I was gonna say nicotine, so yeah, cancer.”

            Steve cracks up, touching his face. Bucky turns into the touch, eyes going to half-mast. “You know,” Steve says quietly, “you might pretend to not like it when I pick you up, but I sure as hell don’t make any complaints when you manhandle me.”

            Bucky looks over, eyes going knowing. “Headboard number five?”

            “At least until this jerk I know stops swanning off to other continents and actually builds me a decent bed—“

            Steve actually yelps when Bucky picks him up, turning red. Carrying him back inside, Bucky murmurs, “The mouth on you. Saints preserve us.”

 

That night, he dreams of trains and his maimeó. He dreams that his mother calls his name. He dreams of Infinity Stones. He dreams he cracks a man’s heart open with his shield. He dreams of a man pulling off his own face. He dreams of a voice on the radio, calling him home.

            He dreams of a boy with a perpetual smirk, running from him, but never so fast that he can’t catch up. He dreams of a man with empty eyes and quick fists, of knives and promises broken. He dreams that he pulls the man from the sky. He dreams of falling.

            He wakes with a shiver.

            In seconds, he’s pulled backwards, as if he were light as a child. Steve goes willingly, still half asleep. There’s a murmured, “Shh,” against his ear, and he relaxes into the bed, into the warmth surrounding him.

            “Safe?”

            “Yeah. Bad dream?”

            “Mm. No. Dreamed I was…I dunno. Someone else. Or me. Then I woke up.”

            “Go back to sleep.”

            Yawning, Steve asks, “Will you be here when I wake up?”

            It takes so long to get an answer that he starts to worry. He can’t help it. But Bucky kisses the back of his neck and says, “Yeah. Go back to sleep, Stevie.”

            He doesn’t know if Bucky means it or not. He hopes it’s true. So he falls back asleep, into new and old visions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. The timeline that began with Red ends much like that story did: in a quiet place, far from harm, with the possibility of happiness. If not forever, at least for a time.  
> There will never be a way for me to properly express my gratitude to all of you. Until a few months ago, I'd never shown anyone else my work, and I stumbled into fanfic at the start of one of the most trying times of my life. Writing these stories and posting them for you to read has definitely been a way to stay sane these last few months. Then, to have people be so invested, to read every day, to subscribe or bookmark or leave kudos, or you special gems who leave comments--that's been incredible. I am a realist, and at my worst a pessimist, but to have you all be so engaged and kind has made the cynic in me step back a little.  
> It feels like I'm saying goodbye, doesn't it? Of course I'm not. To some of you I might be--my next story is a Preacher fic, and for those of you who just dig the MCU or Steve and Bucky, I suppose we're parting ways. In which case, it's been an absolute pleasure. For those of you who like violence, true love, and rock 'n roll, I'll see you back here on Monday. Chapter a day, same as always.  
> So for this cycle at least, here it ends. The only words I have, at the finish, are these: thank you.  
> With all the love in my black little heart,  
> Sebastian  
> P.S. Legitimately, folks, my middle name is Sebastian. It's not a Sebastian Stan reference. When I first came on the site, I was like, huh, look at all these other Sebastians, until I realized what was going on. But damn it, it says it on my birth certificate, so I'm sticking to it. Sorry, HAD to get that off my chest. Anyways, bye for now!


End file.
